


Blinking, He Stepped Into the Light

by Binx0r



Series: After Baskerville [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), 魔法使いの嫁 | Mahou Tsukai no Yome | The Ancient Magus Bride
Genre: Alternate Universe - Shifters, Alternate Universe - Werecreatures, Angst, Blackmail, Body Horror, Case Fic, Curses, Eventual Smut, Explicit Consent, Fae & Fairies, I will be referencing original ACD stories, M/M, Magic, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Sequel, Slavery, Trigger warnings will be posted as they come up, WereJohn, go read Feeling His Way Through the Dark first, talk to one another jfc, there will be smut in this one, they're learning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-02-02 06:19:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12721236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Binx0r/pseuds/Binx0r
Summary: After Baskerville, John's life would change irreparably. He'd been forced to face a side of his life he'd pushed away nearly thirty years.But with the help of his flatmate, he'd found the wolf inside him and the world it came with could be embraced while still leaving him his humanity.Now, though he'd promised to stay human, Sherlock must face his own choices regarding the Fae, his nemesis, his budding romance...Follow our boys, with the aid of our favourite luminescent rabbit, as they stumble through Part Two of After Baskerville.





	1. The Red Circle

Clicking his tongue to tsk Sherlock, Moriarty matched his steps as they circled one another around the prickling remains of a thorny bush. It had occupied about a five square foot area of the forest in Ireland where they stood, until that is Moriarty had chopped roughly at it until it was barely more than a patch of gnarled yet unyielding roots. The branches were spread about in a circle around them on the forest floor. 

“You know, your tardiness makes for an annoying crossover of plans, dear.” 

Frowning at him, Sherlock continued to pace along with the man opposite in his homeland. “You know why I’m here, of course.”

“Well don’t be dull as well as late, Sherlock, that’s just gauche. How is the little thing? Still alive, I assume. You aren’t the revenge sort, are you?”

“I could be.”

“Hm. Not really, though. You want the recipe or the concoction I tested on her. But I am busy. I’ll play with you later.”

“You know there isn’t time for ‘later’.”

“Then you really should have figured it out sooner, shouldn’t you've? Or perhaps remembered I have access to 221A? I see I’ve given you altogether too much credit. Disappointing. A recovering junkie should know the symptoms of addiction and withdrawal well enough.” Moriarty wasn’t paying attention to Sherlock, not really. His eyes were everywhere else, actually.

“Still experimenting with the fae. But you’re Sight-less, as I am.”

“No, not like you. Not remotely. Disappointing as I’ve said, but I’ve transcended your little world, Sherlock, so very long ago. Dis-a-point-ing.” He tsked again. “And I’ll transcend your pet warrah as well, the tiniest of advantages he afforded you, just as- ah. Good.” He did an odd bow as the wind kicked up behind Sherlock, pushing his hair forwards in his face. Moriarty waved about the couple of thorny branches in his hand, taunting something unseen. Sherlock stepped out of the ring of branches. What was he doing? If Sherlock’s notion was correct, he was pissing off the Fae in a very obvious manner.

“The Seelie court then. Greetings.” Then, as an afterthought for Sherlock’s benefit, he looked at the tall Englishman and tapped his eyelids. Sherlock had noticed right away there was something resembling vaseline on them but only filed it away. He didn’t have the information to deduce what it was. “Fairy ointment. Very ‘taboo’.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “You temporarily have the Sight.”

“Temporary. Yes.” Moriarty turned away again, chuckling.

_ Unseen, the White Lady looked with disgust upon the black-eyed human. He reeked of malice and selfishness and disregard. He knew she would come to punish him for destroying the sacred Thorn Tree, and for having and using Fairy Ointment. Taboo was correct.  _

_ She did not regard his words or greeting in the least. _

_ Then she turned her eyes to the one of the keening sense. Of the chameleon eyes. Of the Heart of the Heira. He was not there for her. Curious. _

_ A tingle of her spirit turned her gaze back to Black-Eyes. He crackled branches underfoot to regain her attention. _

“You’re not here for him.” The man seethed, impatient with her. “You know I don’t care about my life so much as  _ not being bored _ . Just try to punish me, White Lady.” He said, lips curling with his own cleverness.

_ He was right, of course. Taking his life would not be punishment at all. Neither, of course, was what he asked. She again looked at Chameleon-Eyes. She blinked behind her ethereal veil. Then she turned, finally, and opened her mouth. Behind the veil could be barely interpreted; void and teeth of a creature from the crushing icy depths of the ocean and gleaming orbs of the universe.  _

Moriarty knew immediately what she was doing, and his face twisted into the truth beneath his disarming facade. “You aren’t here for him!”

 

Sherlock felt a little odd, like his arms were elongating a bit, or weighed more. He blinked, he had thought some occurrence with the Fae would be Moriarty’s reason for coming out here. He did not, however, think it would be what he would be involved with. As far as he was aware, he hadn’t disturbed anything important and without the Sight or some very specific circumstances, the Other Side wouldn’t effect him.

 

_ A circle appeared in the void, in the spaces between existence, around the body of Chameleon-Eyes. The screeching of he who violated sacred ground turned just a fraction of the White Lady’s attention to him. “You’re cold and alone, and you like it that way. What good would it do me to give you this, which you look at as a boon or a toy.” _

 

Nothing moved, but Sherlock felt something shift beneath his feet and in the air around him, and he had a flicker of the mind back to John before he’d left the flat… offering his Alder cane…  _ ‘You’re going to Ireland, you know there’s a bunch of Fae there. Wouldn’t hurt to have something protective.’ _ and he frowned. Too late to speculate whether the cane could protect him from this, whatever it was, or not.

Something crackled in his ears.

 

_ “You come to me and invite my displeasure, and are foolish enough to think I would not know why?” The White Lady continued to berate Black-Eyes. The circle retracted itself, running itself like tattoos of vanishing worlds along Sherlock’s form. They could be seen on his skin, not through or despite his clothes, but in a way of understanding, as they soaked in… _

 

Blinking, staying still (what else could he do?), Sherlock felt a rumble in his gut akin to hunger and anxiety. It spread through, and something on his skin… was there? A voice…

 

_ “No.” _

 

Pressing his gloves to his face, Sherlock began to lose his sense of gravity. He keeled forwards but did not fall, only curled up on himself as he felt pulled, stretched over a drum, not in his body or bones but  _ inside _ .

 

_ “No. Instead, your light” Sherlock heard a voice, flickering as his ears adapted to what they could and could not hear, “goes to your enemy. Look at him, know what could have been yours, and despair.” And remembered no more. _

\---

Using a stick to scratch into the dirt, the fleeting idea of how unacceptable this was flowed into Sherlock’s mind, along with a myriad of others pertaining to sensation and perspective in a much smaller, densely furred body. One with oval ears, wet nose, and long (and seemingly as he experimented with it, prehensile) tail. He dismissed the taboo, because frankly he’d had a trying day and no longer gave a shit.

_ William Sherlock Scott Holmes  _ in a tidy scrawl in the black dirt of an Irish back garden. 

Scrambling over the fence as he discarded the stick he’d written with, Sherlock kicked over a trash bin and settled on the far side with his coat and scarf and trousers and shoes. He’d abandoned the rest of his clothes in the woods where he’d awoken in this body beside the ruined thorn tree, and honestly just getting all this here had been a frustrating trial.

His sharp white teeth emerged as an older woman did, come to investigate her bins.  _ ‘Just read it out…’  _ He thought impatiently. Putting his own coat on didn’t work, like John’s Haversack had a month ago. He needed the ‘calling their name’ lore to. He couldn’t push himself back into his own body, he didn’t know how…

“The hell is this?” The woman tsked in a thick accent as she righted her bin. “Signing your name to this, hooligan brat. ‘William Sherlock Scott Holmes’ what the hell name…”

A tingling victory spread Sherlock’s grin. But as the woman kicked his name out of her garden and cursed under her breath all the way back inside, nothing happened…. No pulling of flesh or elongating of bones.

Sherlock let out a frustrated yell from unfamiliar vocal chords, his voice squeaky and high pitched. He couldn’t fathom dragging his bundle of dirt-wracked clothes any further, it’d already taken at least seven hours to get here.

Raking his long, black, curved nails through his scalp as he would if he still had black curls, Sherlock huffed. At least he still had thumbs, he supposed, and could walk upright with some comfort. He had no idea what the hell he was, only that it was like a lemur or a monkey, about the size of the largest alley cat he’d seen as a child, maybe a touch bigger, and not built for strength.

The biggest changes, which had taken him an hour or two to regulate enough to move around upon waking, were his senses. His long (much too long) thin black tongue smacked for something sweet as much as it did for water, and he could reach out with it past his lips about four inches, which was alarming. Upon that discovery, keeping it in and in check was distracting enough. Then there was his scent, which swarmed around his nose and was a mix of himself (soap from the morning's shower, London's smog, and John) and what he assumed was purely this creature. It followed him in a disturbing way, seeming to rub off his belly especially. It made him seem exposed, and he walked upright as much as possible to leave a smaller trail (as if dragging a coat packed like a satchel along the ground wasn’t enough of a tell). His paws, both feet and hands, were extremely sensitive and could pick up on minutiae he couldn’t dream of as human, and between them and his tail, he had amazing grip. His ears worked mostly without his conscious instruction, flitting to whatever noises and whatnot they picked up on, often discerning things quite a distance off. This was a boon in the woods, even with the cacophony of Neighbors bleating at him and crooning and being generally a nuisance now he could see and hear them, but the closer he got to civilization the harder it was to cancel out. He’d finally become fed up and dug tissues from his coat and stuffed them in his overlarge ears to block at least half of it out. It didn’t feel right, but his migraine was somewhat abated at least.

Looking about brought light, too much light, to his last new sense… his eyesight. This was the most damning and overly changed of senses. Before the sun came out, things were quite clear, albeit in hues of grey. As the light increased, the general sense of color was all he could find. And after sunrise, he found himself needing to squint nearly to the point of completely closing his eyes as his new pupils could not regulate brightness. He deduced, obviously, his new body was nocturnal. Even now, he tried as much as he could to rely upon his other senses. Though everything together made him disoriented and his brain pound in his skull. It was all hateful and made it difficult to concentrate. He was used to cutting off unhelpful stimuli from his human senses, or turning off his body entirely when the need arose… but it didn’t seem to translate properly to the bear-monkey creature whose form he now possessed.

The worst part, though, by far… as he sat against the back of the fence with his paws on his ears and his eyes shut tight… was he’d promised John he would not do exactly this. It was a safe assumption he’d been cursed in place of Moriarty, whether it was as a Shifter though he could not yet say. Regardless, he hadn’t told John much other than he was going to Ireland after Moriarty.

He had to come alone. John needed to stay home and take care of Bluebell. Just seeing her withdrawal was triggering and made Sherlock sick, and she couldn’t reliably stay human given the drug administered was directly related to Shifter experiments. John was the only person they could unquestionably trust with her medical care.

Shaking himself out of the senseless spiral, Sherlock tried again to properly focus and think. If he could get to a computer… 

\---

A short flight over the pond did nothing to abate John’s anxiety and anger. Sherlock’s email had been vague, short, and uncharacteristic. He’d been so insistent that John not come, and the contradiction wasn’t like him…

Stepping out of his cab to the area he knew Sherlock had been working in, John shouldered his satchel and looked about. Already something was off, though it took him a few moments to identify it. It smelled like Shifter, and it lingered in the air as if it had come through in the last few hours. But it had taken him so long to recognize because it wasn’t the sort of scent he was used to. Shifters could easily identify one another, the smell was distinct and pungent. But this was… it was like the chemical imitation. Banana vs banana flavouring. It was diluted and unnatural.

Putting aside that observation, John pushed his bag up a bit more and started walking. If nothing else, finding where the scent was coming from could help lead him to his lost partner.

 

Squinting up from the shade wasn’t working well, so Sherlock scanned the ground for length and direction of shadows to determine the time. John, assuming he’d gotten his email, should have been able to catch the 4:10 at least and would have landed by now. 

He huffed out of his nose, which was the easiest to adapt to his needs. The wind changed, and Sherlock crawled inside his coat with his shoes and slacks and scarf. It was too damn bright, and it’s not as if John would miss the bundle of his clothes.

 

So many thoughts raced through John’s mind as he quickened his pace towards the dark pile of seemingly abandoned clothing under a rather large tree. The branches were swaying, full of little white tree spirits that chattered in an inconspicuous manner. Those sort of fae heralded safety; they didn’t seem to speak so much as whisper and they were sensitive to threats. A calm, old tree full of happy spirits was rare, but greatly welcoming.

John got a heavy whiff of the discount Shifter as he put his bag down and knelt beside the coat. The ball in it moved, trembled, so John sighed loudly. The ball froze, a little squeaking sob reverberating from it.

“Come on then. Out.” John commanded dully, annoyance clear in his inflection. He had several ideas, but his gut was steering him towards one of the more disturbing possibilities. He couldn’t sit like this long, either. His leg never fully recovered and got stiff easily.

Whatever manner of creature he was expecting to come out of the coat, looking down and wringing it’s little hand-like paws, this was not it.

The animal resembled a monkey, though it’s face was more like a lemur, it’s hands more like a raccoon’s, and it’s structure less lanky. John stared as the little black eyes gazed up, though it’s chin stayed down. Then he sighed and ran his hand down his face.

“Please tell me that’s not you.”

The Shifter opened it’s mouth a bit and let out a sort of bark.

“Dammit, Sherlock… You… are you stuck?”

Sherlock shrugged. He didn’t know.

“Alright.” John took a deep breath and stood up. “I’m going to try a few things, but the first is to tell you what you need to do to shed.” Closing his eyes, John tried to recall both what he’d been instructed by the boys in his youth and what it felt like every time he shed himself. “Okay. I guess start with your hands. Most people are best aware of their hands, they use those more than anything. You’re not really an exception in that case.” Sherlock snorted with disapproval, despite himself. “Shut it. It might’ve been easier for me because canine paws and human hands are vastly different, especially in how they feel. You look like you might be closer to human already. So try to think of what your hands used to feel like, and I guess…” John looked over the little creature and thinned his lips. “Yeah, the ears and snout, those’re different enough. Think of those, too. What your ears felt like, or lack thereof I suppose. Then…” John paused, because there was another bark. He looked curiously at Sherlock as he began to change.

It was painfully slow, several loud cracks like knuckles being straightened coming from the creature as fur retracted, limbs lengthened, and most strikingly, mouth worked open and closed as the teeth grew and smoothed out, the nose coming back and up and lightening… Black curls seemed to puff out last and Sherlock was left shaking and gasping as he clutched his arms on the grass. 

The tree spirits chattered a bit louder, as if applauding his return to his human self. Sherlock looked up at them in awe and horror, before his gaze came down to John.

John.

“I’m… I’m sorry…” He croaked. He hadn’t been Shifted even an entire day, but everything felt overtaxed, weary… almost wrong, and he considered perhaps he’d buggered up the shedding process somehow.

Then there was a hand on his shoulder as John knelt in front of him, reaching with his free hand to pull the iconic coat over. The other garments spilled out as John tugged it up onto Sherlock’s shoulders. “Yeah, you’ve got a lot of explaining to do. But not now.” He smoothed his hand over Sherlock’s bicep, tremors still shaking his thin frame. Sighing, John hesitated before pulling his detective towards himself and holding him there. It was awkward at first as John worried he misstepped, or overstepped. But Sherlock sank into him, breathed deeply, and whispered another apology under his breath.


	2. A Case of Identity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock struggles with his shift, and with Bluebell unable to help, John turns to someone Sherlock is far less comfortable with...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! This is my gift to you all for putting up with me as I recovered from nanowrimo. I did end up writing about five chapters during November but they're all just a mess so they'll take some work before they're ready to be posted. I'm still working on this! I promise!

Hot, cold, numb… these changed randomly, shooting through Bluebell’s diminutive form as she shook, almost rattling, in a ball under several thick comforters in the upper bedroom of 221B. Concealing her from Mycroft was moot and it was no longer safe to leave her by herself. No one would admit it out loud, and in some cases not even in their head, but John didn’t use his own bed anymore anyway. Besides, his medical tools were in there, and therefore close at hand for her.

A gentle hand caught the clammy claw that reached for the nook of her own arm. Mrs Hudson softly hushed her and held her paw against the urge to scratch the little red needle marks. The most recent ones weren’t on her arms, but for some reason those old scars were the ones that itched fiercely.

The aged landlady spoke soft affirmations to the ball of mottled fuzz, calm across her face. This was not the first time she’d dealt with withdrawal. Sherlock hadn’t been her first, either, though he had been the hardest on her through virtue of her maternal feelings for him.

The paw in her hand shook harder and moved, bones beneath skin. The agitated though weak cries of a rabbit changed as her body did into wails of pain.

“It’s alright… you’re at Baker Street, dear. You can change as you like, no one will force you.” Mrs Hudson spoke clearly, as she’d been instructed by John before he’d taken off, as she did each time Bluebell Shifted or shed. She seemed to have no control over it, and each time it cracked her bones and caused her mind and body a terrible ache. She sobbed quietly and ground her teeth.

“I can’t do this…” The weary Shifter’s voice cracked.

Mrs Hudson sat her up gently, unperturbed by her exposed body, and guided a straw to her mouth. “Oh hush.” She admonished gently. “You’re capable of more than getting through this nasty business.”  She said as she coaxed her charge to sip at the water. Bluebell started coughing, so she removed the water and rubbed her back. “This won’t take you down. You know, Sherlock went through something similar shortly after I met him. You can’t tell me you’re not at least as stubborn as he is.”

Bluebell chuckled a bit, though it turned into a wheeze. “Dear lord I hate you.” She groaned and rolled over, back under the covers as the chills ran through her, from her spine outward.

“I know dear.” Mrs Hudson replied fondly. “Nasty old lady, spurring you on against something you’d rather give up on.”

“Yeah.” Bluebell breathed, her pounding head pushing her consciousness far below the surface.

\---

The wind whipped John’s Haversack as much as it could off his form as he stood out on the tarmac of a little private airstrip in the Irish countryside.

“I’d already cleared this with your boss so if you have a complaint, take it up with him.” He spoke boldly into the black box he pushed to his ear against the crackling caused by the gusty environment. It looked as if it would storm soon, and the pilot of the jet Mycroft was supposed to send for them was none too happy with that possibility. “Yeah, I’d ‘feel the need’ to get him involved. Right, good then. We agree. Twenty minutes.” John brought the phone down and pushed the ‘end’ button before sliding it into his pocket with a sigh. He looked at the darkening clouds another few moments before turning to the shadows beneath the little air traffic control building. Well, more of a shack, but it still had overhanging eaves that mostly hid the stoic form of his partner. He turned with a sad frown and joined him.

Even though it was a fair enough temperature out, Sherlock was wrapped tight in his scarf and coat, the collar up without pretense for once.

“Alright?” John asked after watching sweat bead on the pallid face of his detective. He stood away after seeing the the minute nod, then pushed the back of his hand under dark curls. “Shit, Sherlock, you’re burning up.” His frown darkened as he cursed his direly limited knowledge of this side of medicine. He had no clue what to expect or how to treat it, and Bluebell was in no state to be consulted on the matter.

“I didn’t get it, John.” Sherlock mumbled, hitching his shoulders higher so his scarf went up under his chin. “I don’t know what he used or where he’s gone now.” Sherlock’s voice was deeper than normal, giving it a sharp and dark quality.

“Nothing to be done about it now.” John sighed, putting a hand on his hip and turning his head down. “I’ll deal with it.”

Narrowing his eyes and scowling, Sherlock tsked. “Don’t fuck around with me, John, I know better than most you require the drug to survive withdrawal this intense. As things are now, she will die.”

“Shut your mouth.” John warned, voice leveled and reasonable. His eyes, however, were gravely dangerous. “Even _you_ need more information than you have to say that with certainty. And you’re not necessarily in a better spot, either. I don’t know what this curse will do to your body.”

“I’ll tell you this…” Sherlock huffed, tossing his head up and away from John’s intense gaze, “I can see Neighbors now, and they’re bloody intolerable.”

John snorted despite himself. “No kidding.” He said under his breath as the roar of an approaching engine took his attention toward the sky.

\---

“Why is it exactly you required me to shuttle you in a private plane?” Mycroft drawled impatiently, hands drawn up atop his umbrella as he sat across from John and Sherlock in his black not-quite-a-limo. They’d been awaited up the airstrip back in London by the frown of disapproval and the ostentatious car, and he’d made it clear his invitation to ride back to Baker Street with him wasn’t a request.

“Can’t figure that out for yourself?” John asked, turning to look out the window as if bored and unimpressed.

Mycroft soured, ignoring the unblinking glare from his sallow little brother in favor of dealing with his annoying partner. “You’re much less polite _after_ I grant you a favor, Doctor Watson. It is fairly childish, do you not agree?”

Huffing a condescending laugh, John crossed his arms but continued to view the London streets whip past. “You see the state he’s in. Even if he weren’t ill, he can’t keep human reliably. We couldn’t risk travelling commercially.”

Frown turning thoughtful, Mycroft thumped his umbrella gently, twice. “That’s never been a documented occurrence; neither of those symptoms.” He hummed.

John shook his head, “What do you know about cursed Shifters, Mr British Government? Had a lot of experience with curses?” He looked right at Mycroft now, daring him to be contradictory.

Back to sour, then somewhat smug, “And you, Doctor Watson? All those years of avoidance, suddenly now you’re so well informed. Quite impressive.”

John raised his brow a bit and smiled. “Isn’t it?” He glanced at the window again, things familiar now. “Now, if you’ll excuse us.” He helped Sherlock up and out, only to be brushed off. Before John could exit behind him, something hooked around his supporting arm. It didn’t take much of a tug to pull him down onto the seat again.

Mycroft pulled his umbrella back, lifting the crook from John’s arm. “Don’t let the rabbit-shift distract you, John. Remember where your priorities lie.”

Tilting his chin down, eyes narrowing just a touch, John Watson was able to look extremely dangerous despite his small stature and light hair. “You disgust me.” He replied, tone strong while still quiet. Then he slid out of the car, not bothering to close the door before he walked into 221 behind Sherlock.

 

“C’mon.” He guided the detective up the stairs, “let’s get you to bed, then I can check on Bluebell.”

“Tell me what he said to you.” Sherlock’s voice was clear but weak in it's demands.

“Not important, just being his usual self.” John sighed as he opened the door on the landing.

Sherlock strode from him and deposited himself on the couch, not bothering with his coat or shoes.

“Sherlock, no. Bed.”

“Make me.” Sherlock dared, pulling a throw off the back of the sofa haphazardly onto himself.

John just rolled his eyes and hung his jacket by the door before rolling up his sleeves. He gave the couch a sidelong glance but decided it was fine for the time being. Sherlock was not in nearly as bad a shape as the woman upstairs. So he continued on his way.

There had been no alerts from Mrs H while he was gone, so he was fairly certain there was no change, and without an idea as to the substance used there was no way to safely lessen her body’s sudden drop in whatever experimental drug Moriarty and his people had been testing on her.

Arriving at his bedroom door, John knocked, was bid in, and entered. Bluebell was a rabbit currently, which made a visual assessment more difficult. “Any change?”

“Not really, I’m afraid. She changes frequently, within a half hour most times, and she has trouble remembering she isn’t in a lab.” Mrs Hudson reported before putting a hand to her mouth and gazing down at Bluebell with concern. John put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently.

“Thank you for watching over her.” He removed his hand and opened his bedside drawer to retrieve a pair of surgical gloves. “I can take it from here.”

“How is Sherlock?” She asked as she stood from the chair they’d brought up.

“Go ask him.” John huffed, pushing the chair out of the way a bit so he could be right up to the bed. “He’s got himself into trouble again. We’ll handle it, one way or another.”

“You always do.” She agreed reassuringly, leaving him to check over the rabbit.

 

“Don’t.” Sherlock grumbled.

“Are you giving me lip, Sherlock Holmes?” Mrs Hudson pushed him over to take off his coat. “Really, ill or not you can’t sleep like this.” She tutted.

“Not my mother…”

“Want I should give her a ring, then?”

Sherlock groaned dramatically and lifted the foot she was taking a shoe off so she could do it properly.

“Better. If you don’t like me messing with you, go hide in your room.”

Sherlock thinned his lips, though they were shoved into a pillow. She must’ve heard John instruct him to do the same. Annoying. “I didn’t get it.” He said after she’d taken both shoes and as she was rearranging the throw to cover him properly.

“No one is going to berate you, so if you want to be blamed do it yourself.”

He moaned loudly, frustrated. His brain felt like it was in a taffy pull, stretched and rolled over and over. If Mrs Hudson could deduce him so easily, he was in a dire state indeed.

He heard rather than saw John descend the steps a moment later, then sink into his armchair. He rolled his head so he faced out, looking John over carefully as he could. “Problem?”

John sighed, letting his face fall into his hands and pulling his head back up, the skin stretching a bit as he did. “Until she sheds, I can’t do much of anything. Even then, all I can manage at the moment is an examination really. I don’t know what’s safe to give her other than water. Her delirium tremens is getting more severe. She needs a doctor who understands Shifters at the very least. I’m not equipped to handle this.” He looked up and locked eyes with Sherlock. “Then there’s you. I’ve no idea what to exp-”

Sherlock’s features scrunched and his body shook. John sprung up, by the time he’d crossed to the sofa Sherlock was already half his normal size and still shrinking. He held back his voice, his jaw locked even as it transformed.

“Jesus, Sherlock…” John sunk to his knees, hands ghosting over the twisting body beneath the throw, afraid to touch during the process. It didn’t take long to end. Taking great care, John rested his hands down and pulled up the cover to see the shaking ball of fur, it’s long tail curled up around it’s arm with just it’s rump still in the now loose trousers. “Does it hurt?” He asked, hesitating to put his palm to the thick reddish-tan poof covering his detective. The little head, eyes shut tight as if in defiance, shook enough to answer.

Sherlock flexed his fingers, slowly unraveling from himself. Oddly, he felt less hot in the little furry animal’s body, less jittery and weak.

“I’ve never seen a shift like that.” John spoke softly, with deep concern. “It looked as if your body didn’t know what to do. Jesus…” Now that they were somewhere safe, John took a good hard look at the animal Sherlock had become, but he couldn’t place it. “... what are you?”

Moving himself carefully and sitting up, eyes squinting to keep out the light (though in the flat it was much more tolerable than it had been in Ireland), Sherlock let out a sort of hiss.

“Don’t get cross, you’d ask the exact same thing. You had to identify the warrah after you saw it.” John sat back on his haunches now he saw Sherlock wasn’t in pain or under duress anymore. “Also you seem to have thumbs, you lucky git.”

Sherlock wasn’t really listening. He leaned forward and moved his head around, keeping the giant orbs on John’s face. It was so different from this perception, yet it remained comfortingly familiar. It was so much easier to determine changes to his vision when he had a control to refer to.

John watched him, wrinkling his brow, and the animal reached forward and began running it’s fingers over John’s face. It was careful of the claws, the pads on its hands soft as satin, but that hardly made the experience less surreal.

John dropped his chin a bit, an odd feeling resonating from where he was being touched to down into his chest. “Sherlock.” There was no indication the animal heard him. “Sherlock.” John said again, surprising himself with his patience with this situation. He raised his hands and caught the soft, furry wrists to stop them. He was surprised at how thick the fur was, his hands sank deep into it.

The animal let out a sort of yipe or bark, then deeply frowned. John barely stifled a laugh, getting a more pronounced look of disapproval.

“Yeah, that takes a while to get used to. You might have proper hands still, but you don’t have the right vocal chords to speak. Too bad you’re not a parrot, hm?”

Sherlock barked again, this time meaning to, the sound sharp and short.

“Hush. You’re right in my damn face.”

Sherlock pushed forward against John’s weak grip, little hands forcing him back against his face. John laughed, which made it hard not to smile.

Turning from laughter to a wicked grin, John hoisted Sherlock under the arms and held him up. He was dense, but John was strong. Only the fluffy tail grazed the floor. “This could be useful.”

Then, much quicker this time, the figure in his hands expanded and pulled with its excess weight, and then the piercing icy eyes were smiling at him, in place of the saucered black ones, under the messy black curls.

It took John longer than he’d ever admit to realize he and Sherlock were kneeling on the floor, facing each other, the latter completely nude with John’s hands against his sides.

Moments ticked on, Sherlock only watching John’s face with interest and a smug, satisfied grin. His body ached and he felt he would begin to perspire from the exertion again soon, but he could push away those physical sensations easily in his more familiar body. The wolf in headlights before him was much too engaging to bother with transport issues.

“You’ll catch cold like that.” John spoke in monotone, mouth dry as his brain tried to reboot. They’d passed the point of laughing off these sorts of things a while back, but he was in no way ready to face things further than the one session of kissing they’d had before starting up work again. Distracted, busy, exhausted… the way Sherlock handled detective work, especially with a new avenue of cases at his disposal, wasn’t exactly conducive to any sort of traditional courtship. That suited John alright, mostly, though sometimes he’d lay in bed, the detective beside him with his laptop most often, on special occasions also sleeping, and thought about the feeling of kissing Sherlock on the couch. They hadn’t spoken on it further; any time John considered breaching the topic he lost his nerve before he could articulate anything. He’d even often gone to bed as the warrah, telling himself it was to get more used to being a Shifter openly (in the appropriate company), though he knew it was mostly to soothe his anxiety at sharing a bed after taking a step towards mutual romance.

“John.” The baritone purr shocked him from his complicated internal monologue. He hadn’t moved.

Usually, John would pull his hands back in shock. Instead, he blinked and properly met Sherlock’s eyes with focus now. He flicked his tongue over his lips unconsciously. “Is this alright?” He asked, only audible in their close quarters.

Sherlock moved first, to cock his head a bit. Right. Sherlock didn’t get this sort of thing. “Yes.” He replied, unsure but unconcerned. He blinked languidly. If this suited to distract John from the real mortal danger they were powerless against settling upstairs, it didn’t really matter the context.

John took a deep breath, Sherlock watching closely as he could tell there were bouncing thoughts the doctor was considering articulating. “Do you think about…”

Before he could finish his disjointed sentence, there was a crash from his room that made him jolt, from which instinct took the rest of the movement to stand and follow the noise up the stairs.

Sherlock watched, not dissatisfied nor assauged, as Doctor Watson returned to action and John Watson vanished for the time being.

Then he stood and waded to his bedroom to descend into the depths of his cool, smooth sheets.

\---

“You can see, he can’t exactly take on cases at the moment.” John said calmly to the DI over a cuppa.

Lestrade, by comparison, was less composed, and it wasn’t any wonder why. He was holding up his teacup, but staring at the animal hanging upside down by its tail (by the hook that once hosted a suicidal mannequin) as it’s small dexterous paws worked with something pliable he couldn’t make out. “Is it contagious or something?” He asked, half serious.

John laughed all the same. “Honestly, he wishes. No. Extenuating circumstance. Dunno yet if it’s permanent though that seems likely.” He leaned forward and flicked Lestrade’s cup, making a dull *tink* to remind him it was there.

“Right. Anything I can do?”

“Honestly, yes. Apart from keeping the Yard from getting suspicious…”

“Moreso than usual…” Lestrade mumbled, though goodnaturedly.

“Yeah,” John agreed, smiling, “moreso than usual. Other than that, we could use someone watching imports, updates on underground deals involving things from other countries in the UK. With things as they are, using the homeless network isn’t-”

There was a tinny, short bark from the area of the kitchen that made Lestrade jump. He managed to not spill on himself, and replaced his cup carefully before looking over. Sherlock had twisted himself to face them with just his tail, his paws were still, and he was obviously glaring.

“Christ. Your eyes are bloody unsettling, you know that?” Lestrade huffed, annoyed he’d been taken off guard. Then he really saw the clay-like substance in his paws properly. “God, man, is that _plastic explosive??_ ”

John sipped his tea, lips thinning. “Don’t bother. I’ve tried. You can’t get it from him, or keep him getting any. He’s yet to damage anything but cutlery and the toaster oven.”

As the DI reacted to that, John considered he was likely far younger than he looked, and a lot of that weariness was most certainly due to Sherlock's role in his life.

“Anyway…” John regaining the attention of the room, “I’d like to also thank you, now that we have a sober moment.”

“Sober, C4 notwithstanding. Thank me for what, exactly?”

“Hm. You helped when I was stuck, out in Sussex. It took you away from London for a lot of time, so… I appreciate that.”

The DI wore a wonky smile and finished his tea. “Ta. None issue, far as I’d consider. Just glad it turned out in the end.”

There was a moment’s pause, then broken by an electronic beeping from John’s pocket. He twisted in his seat a bit to look at a black rectangle attached at his belt, like a pager, and frowned. “Excuse me.” He said, standing quickly and swiftly taking the stairs up to his room.

Left alone with the still glaring animal, Lestrade watched John disappear before turning his attention to the odd little bear-monkey. “Somehow this doesn’t seem as odd as John as a wolf, though I guess that’s ‘cause he’s the ‘normal’ one between you. Not that it means much when it’s being compared to you, eh?” Sherlock hissed another bark, then tucked his ears back and curled his lip down. Lestrade couldn’t help but chuckle. “Can’t be easy on you, when you can’t make comments and corrections whenever it suits you.”

Ignoring that, Sherlock curled himself up towards the roof, like crunches but with a tail instead of legs. He stuck the little yellow ball to the roof before releasing his grip and catching himself as he hit the floor. The image was reminiscent of a cat, or at least the latter end of it was. He walked awkwardly on two legs to his chair, where he flopped onto his back and tented his claws and closed his eyes to think.

Lestrade massaged his brow as he spoke under his breath. “Bloody hell…” The frantic efforts to find and protect John had been one thing; he hadn’t the time to mull over the new world he’d been looking into. Now, in a casual setting with an unfamiliar beast that frankly he wouldn’t think was Sherlock at all if it weren’t for it’s movements and mannerisms, the surreal nature of it all was sinking in. And none too pleasantly, either.

The DI didn’t have too long to permeate in the feeling as John returned, albeit with a changed demeanor. His skin looked as if it were greying around his eyes and on either side of his mouth as he walked beneath better lighting to rejoin the others in the living room.

“Everything okay, John?” The DI asked as he stood, concerned.

“Miss LeCoup is not doing well.” John answered, voice taut and dull as he slumped down on his lounger and put his hands over his face. “Nothing more can be done, though, thanks.” He assured Lestrade, tone softening to become more friendly opposed to business-like.

With a huff of resignation, Lestrade thinned his lips and furrowed his brow all the same as he turned instead for the door.

“Thanks for coming. Let me know what you find out.” John offered, sitting up properly and giving a half-hearted smile.

As Lestrade shrugged on his coat, he took another look at the animal that was Sherlock Holmes. The question had been tugging at him and if he didn’t ask now... “What is he?”

“Ah.” John followed his gaze and considered the time it’d taken to find out. ‘ _Embarrassingly long’_ as Sherlock had put it. “A kinkajou.”

\---

“You must be doing a little better controlling it, at no point while Greg was here did he have to deal with the sudden appearance of your human self strutting around starkers.” John commented at the lounging Potos as he cleaned up the teacups. He glanced up at the dangerous substance stuck to the roof as he moved into the kitchen to place them in the sink. He’d have a hell of a time getting it down if Sherlock ‘forgot’ about it there.

“You can’t draw conclusions like that without significantly more reliable data.” The deep voice from where it hadn’t moved croaked a little, sounding disapproving and disappointed.

“Well you need to learn, it’s irritating at best and enormously dangerous at worst to have you unstable like this. Not to mention I do have enough data to predict the longer this goes on, the more horrid you’ll be as a flatmate. You can’t trust yourself enough to do things that take time or concentration.” Now he wasn’t practically in John’s lap, Sherlock’s nudity was just another quirk. It wasn’t as if he didn’t wander in sheets or a dressing gown or towel and nothing else long before now. The difference was he had a fair reason to stay unclad. John knew from experience how uncomfortable it was to Shift and shed with clothing involved. No, the more annoying side-effect of his tremulous state was he’d been unable to use nicotine patches reliably, and had a constant need for them, so he’d taken to sucking on a pipe he’d hidden long ago in an odd, curl-toed slipper at the back of the front closet. It was a funny image, well enough, but it wasn’t a pleasant scent. And he didn’t seem to realize it was in poor taste to use an addictive drug so openly while someone else in the flat was going through hellish withdrawal. But teaching his detective consideration of others was hardly John’s concern at the moment.

“I need to go to Bart’s.” He announced, shaking water off his hands as he finished washing up. After running it quickly over his arms, he threw the bath towel they’d been using in the kitchen (seeing as _someone_ had burnt the tea towels with acid of all things) at Sherlock as he passed.

Sitting up and dragging his favored throw over himself as the towel slid into his lap, Sherlock’s discerning gaze followed John as he rolled down his sleeves and did up the cuffs by the door to the landing. He kept quiet, a dark expression on his face.

Turning to say goodbye, John answered the look with a frown of his own. “What? Have something to say?”

“You should not leave the flat just now.” Sherlock said, tone cold; pure logic.

“Yeah?” John crossed his arms and put his weight on his good leg. “Why’s that?” When, after a moment of silence, it was clear there’d be no answer, John’s frown deepened. “I have to. Bluebell can’t drink any longer, she needs a fluids IV drip. I can’t kludge one, I need to go fetch it.” He studied Sherlock carefully, but there was nothing he could pick up on. “Unless you can give me some valid reason I can’t, I’m going to get one as soon as I’m able.”

It seemed like Sherlock wasn’t going to give him anything, so John turned and grabbed his Haversack off the hook. As he turned, sliding his arm in the sleeve, Sherlock stood. He strode forwards, pulled the throw tight around his shoulders with one hand (as the towel fell to the floor), and was in John’s space before the shorter man could react. Letting the jacket hang on one arm, John tilted his head to counter the intense stare Sherlock wore.

“I thought we were past this.” John said coldly, loud enough only as it was appropriate for how close they were. It would have been a whisper otherwise.

Sherlock’s expression ticked a moment before setting back as it was, his eyes flashing. “Did you now?” His reply rumbled out of the depths of his chest, and John felt he’d hit a nerve.

Softening his features a bit and relaxing his shoulders, John blinked and spoke more clearly. “You need to tell me what you’re thinking. I can’t guess, most times.”

It seemed to work, somewhat, and Sherlock took a moment before relaxing. John could be patient, and it seemed less like surrendering in that light. “He wanted this.” He soured. He wasn’t making excuses. His hand itched to touch, to get reassurance in the terrible wake of his broken promise. John seemed rather aloof, even though he had come to retrieve him from Ireland. Was he only staying to care for Bluebell?

John watched, though Sherlock’s face revealed nothing of his inner thoughts other than they were unpleasant. But he didn’t push or ask for clarification. It would come.

It hardly mattered just now, the important bit was the danger. “Moriarty will be viciously pursuing us for the foreseeable future.” He offered somewhat blankly.

“Okay…” John tried to help put it together. “You didn’t get the drug or its formula. Why’s he concentrating on us? After all this time with other bollocks.”

Sherlock grit his teeth, his focus manic on making certain he wouldn’t shift during this conversation or make a fatal mistake or expose John to the danger he’d unwittingly brought down on them… but championing all of it was the echoing memory of John’s voice, dark and dead serious, _‘If you dare do something so fucking_ vapid _as_ curse yourself, _so you’ll end up like_ me _, so help me Sherlock Holmes_ I will leave. _’_ It was the first time Sherlock had seen that kind of self-loathing in John, and now he’d crossed the line and done exactly the thing he knew for a fact John wouldn’t abide. He shut his eyes, the scene so vivid as it had been playing since John had left London to fetch him. _‘Don’t you dare, don’t you fucking_ dare _, or I won’t be here when you come back.’_ He’d made a promise, one he intended to actually keep. It was just waiting for the other shoe now.

Flinching as a handful of fingers touched his cheek, Sherlock was shaken from his reverie and opened his eyes. God, he looked… concerned.

“You need to talk to me.” John could feel Sherlock’s jaw clench as his hand rested against it.

Turning away to spit out his reasoning, finally… it seemed obvious, honestly. “I don’t want you to leave!” Sherlock turned again, now a few paces away, to look fearfully at John as his brow furrowed. He was confused… That irked Sherlock, that reminder that even if John saw a lot of Sherlock no one else did, he was still more or less of a pedestrian intelligence. He wasn’t following.

“Leave?” John asked fretfully, a few paces behind. His hand pressed firmly against Sherlock’s cheek. “Why…” Ah, there it was. The realization. The proverbial shoe. “Because you’re cursed.”

Sherlock watched him, panic in his heartbeat but stern resolve in his face. A part in the backdrop of his mind noted John was unlikely to pick up on even that simple a tell. “You made it very clear.” He said seriously; a reminder.

John’s expression morphed from confused and concerned to a furrowed concentration as he worked over the information. God, had he really forgotten? It seemed impossible, enough to make Sherlock’s lips twinge downward in disapproval despite himself.

Finally coming back, John focused on Sherlock’s face and lightly took his hand back. “You haven’t properly explained what happened. But I got the impression you didn’t go looking for this. You’re an excellent actor, but I believed you when you told me you wouldn’t. So… did you? Did you get yourself cursed on purpose?” John’s voice was level; stern but calm. He didn’t think Sherlock was guilty of breaking his promise, but he also wasn’t entirely certain.

“I could tell you I didn’t, no matter the truth.” Sherlock drawled, feeling impatient and cold even as another part of him berated him harshly. _‘Why would you dispute him?! Just agree and have it over!’_ to which the opposing thought replied _‘It won’t matter unless he trusts me implicitly. There is no proof I can rely upon. He needs to feel sure of me or doubt will eat at us and strike again when I’ve forgotten vigilance.’_ As desperate as he was to keep John… it wouldn’t be through coercion. It would be through… trust. He cursed internally, his unfamiliarity with these concepts hampered his utilage of them.

“You could…” John replied slowly, waking Sherlock to the fact it had only been a second or two in real time, outside his head. John ran his tongue over his lips thoughtfully, still not overly perturbed. That could be for a myriad of reasons… “But,” John locked eyes and concentrated fully on Sherlock. The devoted attention made the detective shudder. “Are you?”

Staying silent, Sherlock watched almost as carefully and many times as accurately. They stood there at least a full moment before the tension was broken by a single word.

“Why.” John said finally, not really sounding like a question, as he put his hands on his hips and rested more weight on his good leg. “If you don’t want me to leave, why wouldn’t you just tell me what I want to hear.” Again, not a question. More like a declaration on a fact. Curious. The analytical side of Sherlock’s brain pushed sentiment and fear aside to examine it.

“Tell me.” He goaded, eyes narrowing with interest. He didn’t miss the tick of a grin pull at John’s face before it was smoothed down in the serious nature of their discussion.

“You’re taking this seriously and you want me to believe what you have to say, not just pacify me.” John spoke as if making a guess, albeit an educated one. Then, unexpectedly, his eyes flashed and though he didn’t move, he filled the space between them. “And, or, you’re testing me. I’m listening properly, Sherlock. Just tell me straight out what happened. I don’t want to circle around defensively. What happened when you went searching for Moriarty?”

Taking in and cataloging the looks and movements and ticks of John for closer examination later, Sherlock blinked, decided on the wisest course, and opened his mouth. “He wanted it for himself.” Putting his hands behind himself and folding them meticulously there, Sherlock stood properly and felt his height. He spoke down to John like a parent or teacher, and knew only partially it was to offset the tension of the stakes of this tale. John didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, mind. The familiarity of explaining locked in and Sherlock became more sturdy as he went on. “He has such deep disregard for life, significantly for his own, so he procured Fairy Ointment and went about raising the displeasure of, I believe he said, the Seelie court. I supposed he must have been distracted or showing off as he was notably surprised by the outcome in addition to his great displeasure. I went in search of his knowledge of Bluebell’s condition, as I’d said.” Lowering his chin and calculatedly softening his features, he finished his report. “I did not intend to become cursed, nor did I passively allow it. I was physically unable to anticipate it.” He tapped beside his eyes to illustrate his point, to be especially clear. Then he replaced his hand behind his back and waited.

The response was almost immediate. Huffing a sigh, closing his eyes, smiling and rolling his head to the left, John looked up with weary affection. “It wasn’t your fault, why would I blame you?”

“People often attach unreasonable emotions to their actions, John.”

“We’re going to figure this out, together.” John assured him, reaching to claim his hand.

But, maybe because his resolve was no longer needed or maybe because of simply coincidence, Sherlock shifted so quickly he ended up a couple inches off the floor and fell to it on paws and tail with a low, dull thud. He looked pitiful in that moment, still holding the throw with one paw and gazing upwards.

John looked at him with understanding and compassion, then began to strip. He lifted off his jumper, toed off his socks, undid his belt… as he pushed off his pants, not unabashedly, he let himself fall forwards onto paws of his own. Then he rounded the little kinkajou, muzzle and ruff brushing him lightly, and fell around it’s back in a plush semi-circle, and laid his jaw down against swishing tail to quell it, and closed his eyes with a huff.

\---

“Honestly I’m more worried about what comes next…” John spoke in a half-hushed tone over his mobile, hunched forwards a bit as if that would keep his voice from carrying. He had taken the call in the landing, door only cracked behind him. He was relatively certain Sherlock was dozing, but it was Sherlock… “Yeah, I’ve done all I can for her in this state. I’m guessing it’ll come down to the next twenty four hours, if she takes a turn she could die. If she doesn’t, she should begin to improve. That doesn’t mean she’d done with this, not by a long shot. This will have been like a cake walk comparatively if it has the same addictive properties I’ve seen in similar situations.” He spoke seriously; his doctor’s voice…

Of course Sherlock could hear him, with the great twitchy ears he currently possessed. Curled on the couch in a ball, unseen under his throw, a couple pillows and his favourite dressing gown (on hand for when he shedded, which had yet to present a discernible pattern), he lay still and attentive. John didn’t seem the sort you'd want to get bad doctor’s news from, given how stern and serious he was while donning the stature of a medical professional.

“No, I don’t think she will. What’d he get from that, really. Although he’s been getting increasingly erratic.” John’s voice sounded like it wanted to sigh and become heavy, but again… Doctor. “Don’t you start.” He warned the other party (almost certainly Mycroft). “I get enough of that- no.” A pause. “No.” Simple, controlled words. He was a particular sort of worried. Curious. “That isn’t-” He was allowing himself to be interrupted. Sherlock could picture him pinching the bridge of his nose as he listened, though even his advanced hearing couldn’t decipher the other voice at all… likely because the hum from their lights was distracting. John didn’t let Mycroft roll him over, especially when he was sturdy to begin with. Sherlock furrowed his brow, eyes shut for several reasons. It was less and less likely he was speaking to the elder Holmes.

There was a long pause (two minutes, thirty-six seconds) before John spoke again. “I don’t like calling in favors like that unless I really have to.” Sherlock abandoned the thought entirely, searching his database for a redundancy to fit the voice on the other side of the line. “No. I don’t have an alternative. Yet. I have a little time.” That little rub of friction; he’d moved his weight off one leg. He was irritated but submissive, to the person or the facts they presented Sherlock could not yet tell. He was also wearing jeans. The list of things that indicated flashed through Sherlock’s mind and he picked out the most damning (he was railing subconsciously against his ties to the fae, he felt out of control of something and wanted reassurance, and he either wasn’t leaving the flat today or he was going to a pub. Most likely the latter. Frustrating.) before tuning in for the end of the call.

“I’ll let you know. No, best we not, he won’t react well. Don’t worry about it, that’s my problem. Yeah. Ta.” He ended the call on a defiant, formal note. No doubt his way of getting some power back, like a child having the last word before slamming the door. It was meaningless other than to supplement the ego. Very troubling signs were overwhelming. Very out of character for John.

Processing things he felt he needed to do that he really would rather not, Sherlock silently reached out of the pile and retrieved his own mobile from his dressing gown. It was awkward to type with his Shift hands, but still doable, and he clicked off a short message with a determined frown.

 

_Hanged Man’s pub. 7:19pm. Watch him. SH_

 

It wasn’t much, but if John was going out against his warnings, it would need to do for now. In the meantime, he’d have to slip the Sig Sauer into John’s jacket without him knowing. Having it on him was paramount right now. If he needed it, his hands went for it before his brain and if that were the case, the army doctor was unlikely to complain.

\---

Breath frosting in front of his face always made Lestrade itch for a smoke if he wasn’t engaged in other things. He scratched unconsciously at his arm where he had forgotten to put his patches today and checked his watch. 7:20. He let out a longer breath and looked around. He could guess at Sherlock’s meaning for him being here, but he’d been surprised before. He furrowed his brow as a somewhat familiar face came ‘round the end of the street, headed towards him. The figure stepped under the pub’s front lights and returned the DI’s quizzical look as they placed one another.

“Stamford?” Lestrade queried, unsure.

“Mike’s fine. You’re Sherlock’s mate, right?” He answered cheerfully as switched his leather case to his left hand and offered his right. “I’ve seen you around Bart’s.”

Lestrade shook hands and nodded. “Not ‘mates’ exactly, but basically. What brings you out this way?”

“Could ask you the same, standing out in the cold like this.” Mike chuckled as he looked around “There he is.” He raised his free hand to wave as the stocky blond jogged up.

“Greg. I didn’t know you came here.” John said, not unkindly. He stopped the reply before it could form. “Come on, unless there’s a reason we should be standing out here like lurkers.”

“Can’t think of one.” Mike offered, moving to the door and holding it for the others.

 

They got a table in the back corner, not the usual one Mike and John used. Shed coats, near-shouted orders for a pitcher, hot breaths rubbed into hands, and finally, settlement.

Mike pushed the leather case he’d been hauling over to John, getting a look of relief and appreciation.

“Don’t suppose I’m butting in on something illegal.” Lestrade cocked an eyebrow and smirked.

“No, nothing that dramatic. The reason I’m getting it like this…” John opened the case to show the DI a couple IV bags full of a transparent liquid. “It’s just saline, but it’s not like I can get delivery for it.”

“Actually, you could have.” Mike said as he accepted the pitcher and glasses from a waiter.

“If it’s too dangerous to be around us, there’s no way I’d ask you to come to the flat.” John laughed it off, though nervously.

“I suppose,” Mike let him off easy, “at least you’ve been in the army, mate. I would be an easy enough target, then, wouldn’t I?”

“If it’s so dangerous,” Lestrade poured out the beers for the three of them, “why are you out here?”

“You know that.” John took his pint but kept his eyes on the DI, narrowing them. “Which Holmes sent you?” He took a draw of his beer, eyes locked and dangerous.

After a moment under that sharp scrutiny, Lestrade buckled, dropping his chin. “You should have told him where you were going.”

John looked away, at nothing. “Sherlock then. He has no right…” his voice trailed off and he got foam on his lip as he muttered and drank at the same time.

Between the dark moods of his compatriots, Mike seemed jolly enough by comparison. Entertaining, he might call it. “Nice he’s worried after you, though.” He suggested.

“Maybe,” John turned his attention back to the present, “but he needs to learn about using his words. He can’t keep assuming I know whatever, it’s like opening a tin of beans with a spoon.”

“Please, tell me how, because I can’t often get him to shut up.” Lestrade murmured.

“Better than him assuming you don’t know anything at all, though, hm?” Mike added.

“No. I might’ve agreed with you at one time, but living with Sherlock just… No, it’s way more convenient if he treats me like a grade-schooler because at least he’s sharing his process. The better I get to know him, the less he tell me things. And it’s infuriating, since he does it assuming I’m picking up on everything by this point like he is!” John pounded back his beer and reached to pour himself another.

Lestrade wrankled a bit; he’d never seen John like this. He’d always been stable when frustrated. Anger was controlled or very focused. This was… uncharacteristically open emotion.

“Did something else happen, John?”

Turning in surprise and staring a moment, John sat back in his chair. “Why…” he asked after a tick, “why would something need to happen?” He was able to get traction once he ramped up. “He’s not difficult enough as his usual self?”

“Alright, alright.” Lestrade put up his hands, surrendering. “I don’t want to get into anything. Probably best we just take a little time off, yeah?”

John looked a bit wary still, but nodded and after a few minutes was able to slide into conversation and forget his apprehension.

 

“I’ve gotta see him home, I don’t know if you’ve been on the receiving end of Sherlock’s displeasure but…” Lestrade chuckled as he stood outside with Mike, waiting for John to come back from the loo. He’d found the new man to be a disarming, supportive presence and had taken to him quickly.

“I dunno, Greg. Something’s changed in the past little while with those two. Something not about cases. He needed this, y'know? He’s getting himself back.”

Lestrade pondered that. “I never knew John before I knew him around Sherlock. Was he really that different before going overseas?”

“He was and he wasn’t. People keep a particular sense about them forever, I’ve found. But John lost nearly all of it during his service.” Mike’s jovial face took on an almost alien sense of sadness and contemplation. “He got back and it just… confidence, weight, humor, color… people change as they age, yeah, but that wasn’t it at all. Now, though…”

The men turned as the subject himself came out, catching none of the indications he was being discussed, and took the case from Mike. “Ta, then. Another great evening. Need to be escorted home like an underage girl now. No idea what creeps’re lurking around.”

Mike chuckled and clapped him on the back, sending him off. He watched the two light-headed chaps meander off towards Baker Street with a little shake of his head, then turned to catch the tube.

\---

Though they’d taken a private jet (belonging to the British Government, at least on paper), the circumstance irked Sherlock more than flying coach commercially would have. They’d landed at the Regina International Airport and joined the mulling crowd to meet their ride to the ultimate destination.

“I despise you right now…” Sherlock seethed quietly.

“I know,” John waved as he caught sight of the bouncing white locks he’d been scanning for, “I’m the absolute worst.”

“You’re not taking this seriously at all.” Sherlock accused, sinking his neck further down in his scarf, and not due to any chill.

“Not at all.” John agreed absentmindedly as he waited where they were to meet their contact.

“... I find it terribly irksome.”

“I know. That’s why I’m doing it.”

Souring as far as he could while trying to concentrate on staying human, Sherlock blocked out the cacophony around them. As if he could fend off the Shift just by concentrating… that’s why they were here at all, in the place he’d told Mycroft less than a year ago he’d kill him for sending John to… He had enough reasons to be ‘ _prickly_ ’, as John described it.

John himself was pleasant enough, especially considering he’d been the one to have to contact Mycroft about a favor…

 

_The week prior_

 

“Well well…” the drawl vividly _dripping_ with superiority, “seems coming to your senses wasn't overly much to covet after, Doctor Watson. Clarify it for me, if you would.”

It wasn’t anything less than what John had expected, so it didn’t bother him Mycroft was jumping on the chance to enact a power grab. It was obvious few people stood against him over long, and more obvious still was how sour Mycroft's milk turned at John's insistent bravery throughout their history.

He waited a moment to let the pomp finish oozing superiority. “I’m not asking to go alone. I need to take Sherlock and it’s not safe for him to fly through a regular airline. I still have your information, though your brother wanted to shred and burn it. I just need your plane.”

“John.” Mycroft said a little less smugly after a moment. “Regardless what you might think, I do not have a personal, private jet. Last you made such a request, that was not _my_ plane, either.”

Shifting his weight to jut out a hip with a huff of air through his nose, John raised a brow and smirked though Mycroft couldn’t see him over the phone. “Really? You don’t need to put on airs for me.” He remarked in a faux-sweet tone. Exactly as he’d hoped, he could hear Mycroft’ breathing change as his feathers ruffled the wrong direction.

“I do not own a plane.” He insisted, though at this point John wondered why even bother. Then he heard a distant snickering and knew exactly why, a wicked grin spreading over his face. He was certain he could give the little Shifter twins a show.

 

_Back to the present_

 

“John!” The familiar, lyrical voice rang out as it's owner's bobbing white hair came out of the crowd. After a second’s hesitation, John opened his arms, and a huge smile preceded a tight, full hug.

“Faas. Got some of your weight back, I see.” John squeezed him, the doctor in him unable to be fully ignored behind his more fond reasoning.

Backing up just enough to meet the slightly shorter man’s eye to beam at him, “Family’ll do that to ya,” Faas chirped, before hugging him close again.

John just pat his head, relieved.

As Sherlock watched them closely, he found he didn’t have the hissing tug in his gut that often followed people being that close to John. The only times it was completely absent was with people he trusted, or children. _‘Child then.’_ He surmised, though the boy was at least 18 and could pass for older if he didn’t act so energetically. He also noticed something in John he found he liked… a gentle hand, perhaps? Or the fact he hadn't nearly as much color in his cheeks or vivacity in his demeanor for a long while...

But his attention was torn away from analysis as another figure approached, pushing a great suitcase trolley. Sherlock might’ve been amused, seeing his and John’s one case, if not for who pushed it.

When she wasn’t spitting, the woman could be categorized as attractive by current social standards. She stopped, wisely, several feet back. Gripping the handle of the trolley and looking at her hands (gathering courage), she huffed and looked up. She ignored Sherlock entirely. Irksome.

“Doctor Watson.” Faas’ mother spoke above the crowd, though with softness resembling a purr.

John looked up, letting his hand rest on Faas’ head. He didn’t look at her coldly or change his body language defensively… _‘John…’_ Sherlock thought with disappointment as his hackles metaphorically raised, _‘you’re idiotically defenseless.’_

Finally letting go of Faas, who turned to Sherlock (remaining unseen), John took decisive steps (formal at least, though not militant per se) to her and held out a hand. “Miss Kar. Thank you for accepting us into your care.”

Only a half-tick of surprise before the same sideways grin that her son possessed rose on her lips, and she took the hand firmly in hers. “Least I could do.” She answered. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Shall we?” Finally looking at Sherlock, with curiosity, she added, “We parked very close but we should be quick about it.”

Releasing his grip, John nodded, turning to Sherlock and Faas. The springy youth was watching Sherlock carefully from beside him, and it didn’t seem to bother him at all he was being ignored. “Come on. She’s right. We should leave as quickly as we’re able.”

Peevish that he was being coddled, and that he knew he _had_ to be coddled at the moment, and that John swept _getting_ _shot_ under the proverbial rug to rot and stink there, he stalked swiftly past them. He was confident he could deduce the correct vehicle while the others brought their case and returned the ridiculous trolley.

“He’s’n interesting sort.” Faas cocked his head and pushed his hands into his pockets before following leisurely.

“See what you have to say about him after a few days in his company.” John chuckled, hiking up his satchel on his shoulder and dragging the wheeled case behind him.

A simple, knowing expression graced Faas’ face as he watched his mother take the trolley back, then Sherlock sweeping out the automatic doors and out of the crowds. “Yeah. I'll see then.”

\---

Driving further and further away from the city lights was somewhat soothing, and somewhat terrifying. The darkening prairies around them seemed to stretch on forever with nothing, just nothing, as far as the curvature of the earth would allow. The roads were smooth enough when they started off, but as the sun dipped below the flat dirt and grass, they turned off the highway onto gravel. Dust kicked up terribly, the scent of earth nearly painful in the noses of every person in the dirty SUV. Nothing behind them was at all visible.

After a particularly rough pothole (is that what you called a divot in a country road?) that rattled the satchel John kept safe on his lap, he opened the flap and peeked in to check his cargo was safe. A dull green glow illuminated his face, as if he were a teenager telling campfire stories.

“Huh.” Faas whistled quietly. “Dun see that every day.”

Closing her in again, John smiled tiredly at the boy who shared the back seat with him. “Yeah. I’m not certain she’ll know where she is when I wake her. She wasn’t really cognizant when we talked about it. But this is best.”

“Hm.” Faas looked past John, out his window, thoughtfully. “Wonder what they’ll have to say about glowing. Not strictly forbidden, I’d think, but with those’n-”

“Faas. Hush.” His mother chided in a firm, quiet voice.

Wrinkling his brow, John looked at the small woman driving. He hadn’t taken notice, but she seemed terribly anxious in a way that hadn’t come out at the airport. “Will having Bluebell here for her rehab be a problem?”

“No, no…” She answered hastily, watching the gravel under her headlights run past. “Though you should have mentioned that she’s luminescent.”

Frowning, John crossed his arms above the satchel. “What does it matter she glows? She was kept by the same people who took your son, and for a lot longer. You knew that much.”

“They’re traditionalists.” Sherlock, who was leaned against the door and had looked as if he were sleeping, spoke clearly without moving. “Anything against the norm is in danger of being met with hostility.”

The crease in John’s forehead increased and they bounced over another hole in the road. His crossed arms went down to steady Bluebell. “Great to find that out once we’re already out here.”

“Mum wun let ‘em do anything.” Faas yawned and rested back, hands behind his head. “You’ve got more wiggle room’n most.”

“She shot him. We had better have.” Sherlock mumbled. He was not here by choice. John was getting irritated about something the detective was doing, or wasn’t doing, but he could not deduce what the hell it was. He was about to watch someone he… _tolerated_ … go through something hellish the same way he had but with PTSD sprinkled on, he still couldn’t control his Shift and he’d been assured reversing this spell wasn’t done. Now he was away from the UK, from his flat and access to law enforcement and cases and equipment…

He was about to be surrounded by Shifters and likely Neighbors, the former of which certainly didn’t take kindly to cursed Shifters. His only allies therein were a woman he’d threatened to kill and who had shot his partner, and an inexperienced child.

“Sherlock.”

John’s voice got his attention.

“If you’re going to be snippy about something that’s no longer relevant, we’re not going to get anywhere. It’ll be hard enough working with Bluebell, especially if they decide she’s too ‘different’. You need the Kar’s help. Obviously I can’t help you properly.”

Something in that stung, and made Sherlock weary. He wanted to sleep, rare as the compulsion seemed. Instead, he shrank in the front seat into his clothes as they crumpled around his new lion-bear form. John was right, lord it was uncomfortable to shift with clothes on. With as little movement as possible, he kicked his pants and trousers and the one sock he’d somehow kept partially on his paw, off himself. Then he curled up and pushed tissues into his ears and calculated how much longer this drive would be.

\---

The rattling of the SUV bumped once on each set of tires and stopped. John leaned sideways to look, since the light hadn’t changed from the dark of the deep prairies. The headlights looked as if they were shining through fog, though it was clear out, and instead of being shook they now glided as if on a newly paved parking lot. But it wasn’t asphalt or cement. Running ahead and under them looked as if made from large rocks that had been smoothed and fitted together so the only way to tell they weren’t all one stone was by the differing colors and patterns.

Lights further up began to flicker on, orbs lining the road kept aloft by something unseen, and Miss Kar shut off the lights on the SUV.

The village came into view all at once; John thought he’d blinked and it was there. They were already passing several small, homey cottages as the vehicle slowed.

“Are we through the veil?” John asked in awe and reluctance.

“No, though we do live on the fringes. We’re still accessible to humans. The paper, milk delivery, all those sorts of things come here.” She kept on the main road as the structures grew and became more modern, more pristine, though they had to still be at least 50 years old. At the end, where the road became a bay encircling a very large tree (John couldn’t place the species in the dim light), she slowed before a great fence of moss-loved stone. The gate before them swung inward to let them pass to the old, well kept Tudor.

As he spotted something move, only a shadow from this distance, on the far side of the grounds, John wondered why he hadn’t seen anyone at all in the village. Not one human, Shifter or Neighbor.


	3. The Boscombe Valley Mystery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While settling into life on the prairie Shifter commune, Sherlock goes off on a case despite warnings to the contrary. John gets in a fist fight, which he would not classify as a fist fight. Bluebell isn't doing well. And they manage to be a pain for Lestrade long distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to AliaArik for Beta'ing this chapter for me!

****“Hm? Running around last night? Probably my brother.” Faas answered, stirring cream into his tea as he sat opposite John and Sherlock in the breakfast nook of the house. It was open, filled with the natural light from the great bay window that took up one corner of the room, and temperate to accommodate a veritable greenhouse of plant boxes that lined the surrounding wall (with the exception of course of the nook’s bench beneath the bay window and the doorways leading to the rest of the house).

John was studying his surroundings with wonder and curiosity, not paying much mind to which jam he slathered on his toast. “Are you two getting on better now that you’re home?”

“Naw. Still hates me. An’ I can’t say I approve’a the way he drags along his girlfriend either.” Faas frowned and took a scone.

“Hm.” John replied thoughtfully, lifting his toast to his lips but not eating it right away.

Sherlock had his face in the local paper, tea poured out but cooling, plate empty of even the attempt at something solid. Either something had caught his attention, he was avoiding something, or both.

John let him be, taking a bite finally and washing it down before speaking again. “Is there a reason everything was deserted?”

“Hm,” Faas looked up and tilted his head slightly, “you didn’t know? Because’a him.” Since he was holding his breakfast in his dominant hand, Faas gestured towards Sherlock with his elbow. “One’a the easiest ways ta get the Shifters ta turn on ya is associating with someone being punished by the Fair folk. Dun matter it wasn’t yer fault, you got cursed and it’ll never be accepted by other Shifters. ‘Least not th’ traditional ones.”

“Why bring him here at all, then?” John’s face darkened.

“Guilt, mostly, I’d wager.” Sherlock supplemented matter-of-factly, licking a finger and turning the page of his paper. “And embarrassment. Wasting all that time with us, hampering our own investigation, banishing her son based on misdirection. Besides, the Kar name has enough political sway. No one will openly rebuke her. They can show their displeasure in other ways. Shunning, avoidance. It really isn’t complicated, John.”

After a moment for the two of them to process that, Faas burst out laughing. “Pfft, is that what you meant?”

Sherlock raised a brow and looked over his paper, but the boy was addressing John.

“Just you wait…” John sighed, finishing his toast and eyeing his partner. “It’s true then? Your family is big in the Shifter community?”

Faas nodded, mouth full at the moment. He was watching Sherlock again, who’d returned to his paper.

John followed his gaze, frowning a bit. “Find something?”

“Quite possibly.”

\---

“You can’t possibly take on a case now, Sherlock!” John called as he followed behind his detective. The man had tucked the paper under his arm quite suddenly and left without a word, leaving John to quell his annoyance and surprise to chase after him. “You’re not here for work, you’re here to learn how to control yourself properly. So you _can_ work!”

“I intend to break the curse, therefore there is no use learning it.” Sherlock strode on, behind the house, only stopping when they reached the fence.

“That’s vapid even for you.” John stopped beside him and huffed, crossing his arms. “I’d have thought, even if it wasn’t your doing, you’d want to keep the Sight and your unusual Shift. And there’s no telling if it’s even _possible_ to reverse it.”

Not paying attention overly, Sherlock was doing calculations (John could tell by the way his eyes flitted over things) of the 15 foot fence and their other immediate surroundings. The moss was so thick here even with the small slats between each stone, you couldn’t see past it.

Seeming to come to his conclusions, Sherlock turned to face John and walked right up until they were almost touching, looking down at him; stoic, unreadable.

John waited, willing himself not to think anything of it. Not right now.

“You did not want me to become this. But you’re accepting it without question. Do you not become sickened, John,” pitch lowered on his name, making John press his lips thin, “when you think I’m ‘ _like you_ ’?”

After a moment of John staring back and trying to think of some reply, anything, Sherlock tsked and narrowed his eyes. “I do not enjoy being distracted on a case. And I _am_ on a case.” Then he turned away, flexing his fingers wide and fisting them again and again before running at an angle towards the wall. He pushed off a tree next to it and managed to grab the ledge of the mossy stone. He reestablished his grip carefully, then hoisted himself up.

John watched, feeling abandoned, defeated, and confused. But the black curls bobbed over the side to look at him.

“Are you not coming?”

John opened his mouth to reply, brow furrowed, then closed it again.

Sherlock smirked and lowered to his belly to extend a hand. “Come on. Unless you think you can climb this without my help.”

Failing to hide his smirk and excitement despite himself, John sprung up to catch hold and help Sherlock haul him on top of the fence. They sat there a moment, just a moment, and looked out on the vast fields, some still with bales in them at particular junctions.

“There was a time I could, you know.” John looked at Sherlock with a cocky gaze. “Climb this without you, easier than you could, even.”

“I’m sure.” Sherlock returned, a note of sarcasm there, before he leapt down onto the grass on the other side.

\---

It hadn’t been as long a walk as John would have thought, though part of it he had to carry Sherlock’s clothes and wait out in the brush (what little of it there was) before continuing. When they reached the next town (jumping the fence, Sherlock had admitted, was unnecessary. Just faster.), Sherlock went into the local grocery first thing and flipped through more papers, buying a few and leaving the rest. All the ones he’d chosen were very local.

They stopped in a nearby coffee shop for him to read and mark bits, while John looked up anything he could online. He found nothing, unsurprisingly for the boonies out here. He was lucky to get data at all.

“There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact.” Sherlock said finally as he put down his last paper and turned it toward John, pushing the coffee out of the way.

“Here, it says when he was arrested, he admitted he deserved to be. But then he also says he’s innocent.”

After glancing over the article quickly, a son was arrested on suspicion of killing his father, John smirked and huffed a breath out his nose. “That’s pretty suspicious right there, isn’t it.” But when he looked up at his detective for confirmation, his smile faded into a quizzical look. Sherlock had on his smuggest of grins. “On the contrary, actually. That indeed was what led me to doubt his guilt altogether. It isn’t a far leap to feel guilt and shame when you’ve just been quarrelling with family before they die. Thinking he’s deserving of punishment, though not for the crime with which he’s being charged… he is either an innocent man, or one with prodigious self-restraint and control.”

With that, Sherlock scooped up his clippings, left the remains, and walked out. John let out a little annoyed huff as he helped clean up, then paid for their drinks.

Once out and caught up (already a block and a half away, the git), John considered things as he walked alongside Sherlock. If he was that certain this early on, it was nearly always the case he’d uncovered something significant that, unless they followed it themselves, would be overlooked. “Where are we going?”

“Morgue. Or what passes around here.” Sherlock replied curtly as he pulled his coat collar up against the brisk fall air that blew powerfully around them.

“Hm. Fine. But what do you intend to do if you suddenly Shift during this case?”

Sherlock frowned deeply. He stopped walking and turned to fully face his doctor. “... I need your help.”

\---

“Because I’m a bloody doctor, that’s why!” John insisted. “I’m not just some bloke who likes to rifle around in murder victims!” He’d gotten into something of a row with the staff sergeant in charge of the region. The citizen administrator was trying to mediate and explain things, but it seemed it wasn’t John’s day what with the self-important man standing between him and vital information.

“The New Scotland Yard did call, sir, to back his credentials.” She offered.

“Well too bad for him we’re not in Scotland!”

John’s temper paused as he tried to decide if that was a poorly timed, badly missed joke, or…

“Neither is the Yard.” She replied calmly, though even she looked unimpressed by his ignorance. “The call came from London. All he wants is access, he’s not taking over the case.”

“I don’t need the hassle, the little twerp confessed at the scene. Doesn’t matter if he took it back the next second, he’s our perp, and there’s no need to let some _other_ little twerp from overseas come in here and tell me my business!”

Standing in military posture, John grew collected and cold. “You may want to try that again, sergeant.” He narrowed his eyes just enough to give his posture the chill of danger, and he could tell without deductive powers this man hadn’t seen so much as a drunken knife fight in his life. Likely why he acted like this, in all honesty.

The officer puffed out his chest and came around to stand in front of John, leaving only a few inches between them.

 _‘Just do it, you ignoramus.’_ John thought, calming at the thought of a fight. _‘I could use the distraction._

\---

Laying on a stuffy, much too firm sofa and tossing his phone in the air, Sherlock pondered his choice to send John out on his case. He caught the mobile and tossed it again. After all, it had been less than a week ago they were having a toff over John going around anywhere right now by himself. Here, he rationalized, there were scores of Neighbors everywhere (part of the reasoning behind having the mobile out and in full sight; they didn’t like it for the most part, and therefore gave him some space. Even if they didn’t seem as taken with him as they did with John…) and that seemed to give the wolf-Shift an advantage. Besides the fact here was ‘home turf’ for him in other ways.

Sherlock frowned regardless.

Then his gaze idled over to the skeletal creature shuffling across the living room (or sitting room, or whatever. Not that it mattered.). “And how are we today, Miss Rabbit.” He asked, as if she were capable of telling him anything he couldn’t figure from looking.

“Fine, fine.” She croaked, not seeming very cognizant as she sank onto a puffy old lounger as if in slow motion.

Sherlock frowned more deeply. This was not her at all, nor, in this moment, was he confident she would ever be again. He forced his mind to block out the mirrored image of himself, years past.

He shifted.

It wasn’t more than a chore at the moment, as he was in a dressing gown and sleeping trousers and nothing else. Out here, he didn’t have the need to stuff tissue in his ears, either. That only lead to him shaking his leg as he missed London, a living creature of a city and far closer to him than the fluttering Neighbors he’d finally gotten the ability to see. God he could use a smoke. John had been vigilant about disallowing his pipe from their luggage. Downside of sharing.

A hand brushing against his ear shook him back to the room, where the greyed image of bony fingers came through his squinted, over sensitive eyes.

Hollow eyes devoid of recognition stared at him, a dumb grin sliding along her face. “Looked so soft…” She muttered as her hand slowly fell down his ear and off.

This close, Sherlock was incapable of filtering out himself, and everything that ached was raised up in him. He hated Mycroft. He hated his parents. He hated the teachers, the kids in school, hated how people looked at him after he spoke, after they’d heard whispers (far too loud, not intended to be heard? Laughable.), hated he couldn’t turn it off on his own.

Something else could, though.

Shedding, sitting up, trousers still somehow intact on his frame, he pushed the heels of his palms into his eyes until it hurt and he saw stars.

“Bluebell. _Bluebell._ ” He could hear… not his voice, but one from many years in his past, and mumbled the words they’d said then; “If you give into this, you’re letting someone else dictate and snuff out your life. I know you’re stubborn enough to make up for the strength they took from you. If you can hold on… this will pass. Something better will replace it. If you can hold on.”

Shaken back again by her hand on his… but damn, the heat. He put his forehead to hers, then sat back with a frown at her unknowing face. “Your damn brain is being poached in your skull.” He said, more to himself, with the taste of rot in his words.

Rising with nothing more than a strict face left to convey anything, he took her shoulders and led her like a machine off to her room. He left behind his phone.

\---

Strolling into the villa (via the front gate, like a normal person) and into the house, John tossed the file in his hand onto Sherlock’s belly and sat triumphantly on the nearby recliner. His detective didn’t stir.

“You look pretty happy, then.” A sly voice rose from atop a set of bookshelves, and John looked up to see Faas. He didn’t bother covering a large yawn.

Ignoring the fact a teenager was lounging about ten feet up on a very old looking wooden bookcase, John smirked and leaned back. He took up a paper from the side table and starting glancing over it.

Finally sitting up and opening the file, Sherlock side-eyed his partner. “Autopsy report. You substantiated these?”

“Yeah. Blunt force trauma, easy enough to determine cause of death.”

“Posterior third of the left parietal bone, left half of the occipital bone shattered…” Sherlock mumbled aloud as he reviewed it himself. He skimmed the rest, then tossed the file on the floor beside himself. “Thank you. Not overly helpful, but thank you all the same.” He lay back and closed his eyes to think.

John folded the paper so the top half sagged in his hands, looking over it discerningly. “Thank you?”

“That is what people say, is it not?”

His good mood fading somewhat, John let the paper down on his lap. “What’s happened?”

Cracking one eye to look at John without moving anything else, Sherlock decided he’d been correct initially. “No problems then, with the investigation?”

The flicker of emotion over John’s face told Sherlock several things, but one of them made him unsure.

“No. Nothing I couldn’t handle.” John’s suspicious tone…

“Fer folk who make their stock in solid facts, ya both communicate almost completely subtextually.” Faas drew John’s eye; he’d forgotten the other Shifter was in the room.

Why did that make the hair rise on John’s neck, make his face feel flushed? He wanted to refute it immediately, but didn’t, and became incredibly uncomfortable. Both Sherlock and Faas were watching him closely. He set his jaw, raised his paper, and spoke in as casual a tone as he could muster. “You may get a frustrated call from Lestrade later, though. I was forced to employ self-defense with a local police sergeant.”

“Oh?” Sherlock let his current deductions go unspoken, sitting up and looking at the paper hiding John.

“The administrative assistant will back me up if anything comes of it, and I don’t think I’ll have much trouble with him again.”

Smirking knowingly, Sherlock tented his fingers. “Self-defense, hm? Nothing at all provoked?”

Clearing his throat to mask a snorted laugh, John flapped the paper so it was straighter. “I’ve no idea what you could mean.”

Faas grinned, watching them, forgotten again as was his strength.

\---

Because he was unable to risk shifting accidentally, Sherlock went after dark to the scene of the murder, a pond sitting between two properties, to collect information.

Boscombe ‘Valley’ was the name of a large farmland nearby shared by a couple of older men. They had their own houses about a mile apart, the pond about halfway between them. One of these men was the murder victim, and his son the prime suspect arrested for the crime.

This time, Sherlock’s unexpected change in the middle of things was a boon. The amazing night vision made the whole process a great deal easier, and he was able to finish much earlier than he’d predicted. He’d even put to use his ash catalogue (who cares about 143 types of tobacco ash indeed).

By the time he was satisfied by his investigations, even if he had to sit and wait to turn back in lieu of dragging his clothes around again, Sherlock had a fair picture of the events. He used this time to mull over the collection of facts he’d gathered both here and from other sources. The victim supposedly referenced ‘a rat’ in his dying moments, but there was no indication one had been there or at all involved. Even if it were a Shifter (the scent he’d learned to attribute to them lingered there), rats were much too small to be anyone’s Shift. It seemed unlikely, in addition, the more colloquial meaning was behind it. It was much too archaic, unlikely to be used as a last ditch communication. No. But he was more certain than before that the son was innocent.

There was one clearly inhuman footprint in the mud of the pond, though mostly ruined by intruding police investigators, that if he could place could be the last piece he needed.

 

Finally, an hour or so before dawn, Sherlock shed finally and got dressed. It was much later than he’d wanted to return, but all things considered…

He had a leisurely walk back, the inklings of a sunrise teasing the horizon as he came finally to the Shifter village.

This is where things went terribly wrong.


	4. The Silver Blade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John sort of moms all over the place, because someone has to, and then gets momed because no one is perfect. We meet Faas' brother finally. Bluebell mostly sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS for harassment/bullying, violence, blood, vomiting.

Unable to sleep while Sherlock was working, even if he wasn’t there, was a part of life John had long since accepted. He took another cup of tea (he’d lost count how many this would make) and tried in vain to read a novel he’d randomly selected. The elder Kar brother was perched nearby, though John was never sure if he was awake or sleeping, to keep him company.

Even from the greenhouse sitting room in the Kar family house, shouting carried from the middle of the miniscule town and caught John’s attention. It rang through, bouncing around off the stone and sounding more like barking than yelling. His guts twisted terribly as he pushed himself up, knocking over his teacup but ignoring it as he started in a brisk walk to the door. “Faas, stay here.” He called back even as the teenager jumped down.

“I can-”

“Stay here!” John was already jogging as he rushed out of the house and down towards the gate. God, something was wrong… As adrenaline pumped through him, he struggled to push down the instinct to shift into his faster and stronger body. He hadn’t even heard Sherlock in the crashing din of voices, but he knew, just knew, he was there.

Breaking into a full run once he’d swung the gate out of his way, the square came into view… A crowd or more accurately a mob, all as humans (thank Christ), surrounded Sherlock as a cloud of Neighbors churned above them.

Finally hitting the swell of bodies, John forced himself through, making himself small and dense as he wormed, pushed… he broke out and stopped, catching his breath. Sherlock didn’t appear injured as he stood tall, defiant, in the middle of it all. Around his detective there stood an empty space about a metre in radius, between the mob and him. Stomach dropping, John realized the mob was throwing more than curses at him.

“Christ…” John swore under his breath, moving in and putting his hands to Sherlock’s face. People had stopped throwing things, but the shouting continued. “Sherlock.” John spoke clearly, tugging minutely at the defined cheekbones. “Look at me.” It was like his detective was completely zoned out, but now he blinked and lowered his chin a bit.

“John.”

“Yeah. What the hell is going on?”

Blinking again, as if he hadn’t noticed the mob or cacophony around them, he did a quick sweep with his eyes before he put his hands, still gloved, to John’s. “Seems they’ve taken issue with something.”

Now confident his detective hadn’t been injured, John coughed and tried not to grin or sigh with relief. “Stop that. This is serious, you’ve got eggshells in your hair and coat and… Jesus, Sherlock.”

Smirking slightly, Sherlock pulled John’s fingers from his face. He didn’t let them go. “Far from the worst thing done to me, I assure you.” His eyes flicked around at the spirits that circled around and above them. The largest swam through the air in languid circles, looking as a large turtle though transparent and much, much larger. The Shifters took care not to touch it; it was probably keeping the mob from getting violent.

“What the hell is going on?!” A familiar voice yelled, and the small crowd parted to let her in. Miss Kar stormed towards them, though she also did not cross the line the Neighbors had created. She turned to address the mob. “ _I_ gave them leave to be here, none of the other Families have said anything about it…”

As she spoke, Faas wandered over as if it were a normal day.

“It shouldn’t matter! The Cursed aren’t welcome here! Leave them out for the slavers!”

“Yeah, they’re taking our children! You should know that better than anyone!”

“He’s been marked by the White Lady, if you keep him here the Fari won’t work with us!”

As Kar spoke to the angry people, John led Sherlock out through the space she’d created and back towards the villa. Faas moved once they passed to the middle of the road.

 

“You idiot… she told you clearly not to go out there when it’s light out.” John sighed, still pulling Sherlock along behind him. He wasn’t resisting, but he wasn’t keeping up properly either. “You’re damn lucky that’s the worst that happened.”

“You may be surprised to learn, I’m quite versed with petty bullying.” Sherlock answered dully, pulling shell off his scarf.

“‘Petty bullying’ is so far from what that was, Sherlock, it was a bloody angry mob. The only clue missing is torches and pitchforks.” He pushed into the front door, which had been left ajar, and up the stairs to the bathroom.

Having to clean up seemed somehow beyond Sherlock’s abilities at the moment. Something held his attention and it wasn’t the feeling of yolks in his shoes.

“Hey. Here’s the shower, you can shower, right?” John swept his hands towards the copper pipes and clawfoot tub.

But Sherlock didn’t reply, just stood there with a half-smile. He moved his fingers and made vague gestures once in awhile, but was definitely not present.

“Dammit…” John huffed and pulled off his scarf. “If you don’t clean this up before it dries, it’ll be a nightmare.” Throwing the scarf into the hamper, he sat on the edge of the tub and started the water. He frowned at his fingers as he ran them under the stream to find the right temperature. Things had gone sideways before he could get his head around them. In fact, the last time he could remember feeling solid and sure of himself was… before Baskerville. God, what was his life? He ran his dry hand over his face, shook off the other, and stood. He watched Sherlock’s odd outward display of inward thoughts as he pulled off his jumper rolled up the sleeves of his button-down.

“I’m gonna have to treat you like a toddler, aren’t I?” He said, mostly to himself.

 

Undressing Sherlock wasn’t as difficult as he’d guessed, not only from a physical perspective (he moved and held himself wherever John pulled, like a doll), but from a psychological one. Sherlock was never overly conscious about his own nudity, which made it silly for John to make a fuss about it. It was long before now he’d grown accustomed to whatever state of dress Sherlock had ever employed. He’d been worried their kiss had derailed his thoughts enough to make this awkward, but somehow the way Sherlock was completely distracted and the emotional aftermath of the mobbing made it easy to deal with in comparison.

So now that Sherlock was sat in the tub and John was massaging shampoo through the sticky mess in his hair, John was almost relaxed.

“You… I really wish you’d talk to me. About this, about Bluebell, about… other things.” He spoke to himself quietly, scrubbing gently much longer than he needed to. He’d never really touched Sherlock’s hair much. It was kinda… nice.

“Dunking your head.” John warned blandly, thinking Sherlock wasn’t paying attention anyway. Holding his detective’s nose closed, he pushed him under the soapy water and back up, taking up the conditioner (they’d packed Bluebells as John was certain Sherlock used it but couldn’t find any in his bathroom)...

“John.”

Starting at the sudden show of cognizenze, John looked at the sopping figure to find he was looking right at him with a wicked grin. “Um…”

“I know who did it.”

\---

At least playing catch up was normal, as far as John’s part in cases was concerned. He’d had to stop the lanky bugger before he dashed out of the bathroom, starkers and soaked.

“Explain here, then.” John insisted, somewhat irked, as he dragged a towel over Sherlock’s scalp probably harder than he had to.

“Spoilsport.” Sherlock mused, in surprisingly good humor seeing he’d just been mobbed.

“You’ll get your jollies either way, why does it matter?”

“I rather enjoy your reaction in the midst of the others, and really it would be asinine to repeat myself.”

Finishing enough to satisfy himself, John stood and tossed the large fluffy towel at Sherlock without looking back. “Lemme find some other clothes.” He mumbled. “Stay here until I get back, yeah?”

Not waiting for a reply, and with it some sort of argument, John marched from the bathroom. He unrolled his sleeves as he traversed the hall to their room. At this point, it was somehow assumed they would share, but they’d never discussed things after _the kiss._  It tugged at John, but things had become much too busy to bring it up. He couldn’t assume anything where Sherlock was concerned. He didn’t seem to understand the norms of regular human interaction, let alone romantic ones.

Pushing it all away with a deep sigh, John opened the door into his room. It’d be a good chance to check on Bluebell as well. She often slept on the extra bed there, if she wasn’t with Faas or his mother. As expected, she was there, but so was…

“Faas?”

There was a boy who looked nearly identical, if it weren’t for his hair… it was much shorter, spiked and pushed from his face with a bandana. That was not the disturbing part of the image, though; he was leaned over Bluebell as she sat, vacant, in the high-back chair beside the window.

When John entered and spoke, the boy turned his eyes without moving his body to look at the doctor. Narrowing them, grinning, and standing to face him, the boy spoke. John didn’t miss his fingers flicking across Bluebell’s chin as he turned, either. It made his gut clench.

“Hey there Pet.” He said comfortably, a low trill of a purr, as his posture relaxed and he stuck his hands in his pockets. He was like Faas only in outward appearance, that much was obvious.

“Doctor Watson, actually.” John corrected coldly, striding over to check on Bluebell. He didn’t like how this kid had loomed over her.

“How formal.” The boy tsked, leaning out of his path but not out of his personal space.

Bluebell was barely conscious, humming under her breath… she didn’t look right, even for someone going through severe withdrawal. “What were you doing?” He asked, using his Captain’s tone. He took out his pocket torch and checked her pupils.

“She’s nice, eh? Little bunny, right? I hear she glows in th’ dark.” The boy leaned over John’s shoulder to speak in his ear. It made the hair on his neck stand on end.

John stood quickly and grabbed at the boy, a move he’d used many times, because damn if he was going to let this little shit fuck around with him. But the boy jumped back out of reach with ease, onto the closest bed, and crouched there with his hands still in his pockets. The superior look he shot at John, the taunting wiggle of his eyebrows…

“Leo!”

John’s eyes went to the doorway, though his attention never left the boy on the bed. The real Faas stood there, wearing an expression of worry and anger John had never remotely seen on him. He walked into the room, giving his brother a wide berth.

“Faas.” The cheery reply was dripping with underlying hate. “ _So_ happy yer back. What can I do fer ya?”

“Mother told you not to come in here.” Faas faced his brother as he moved around to John and Bluebell. He looked… scared.

“Yeah. She did, didn’t she?” The brother picked at his teeth with a fingernail and checked it, casual though staying in that crouched position overlong should begin to get hard on his legs soon. “Gonna tattle?”

“If I have to.” Faas reached the others and stood between them and his brother. “Please leave.”

Leo Kar’s eyes raised, flashing. He stood, dropped off the bed, and took a step forward so he was right in Faas’ face. “Make me.”

Having bloody enough now, John grabbed Leo’s bicep and yanked him away. “If you insist.” He said coldly, pulling the boy to the hallway. He knew the youngster allowed it, but no matter how fast he was, John was also confident he was stronger and more capable if he decided not to.

Releasing him out in the hall and blocking reentry, John looked at Leo and tried to fathom how he could be that similar in looks and yet so entirely different in personality.

A sly grin matched John’s glare, looking him in the eye and then obviously scanning the doctor up and down with invasive scrutiny. Then he turned on his heel and traipsed lazily down the stairs to meet with a girl John didn’t know how he could have missed; she had long, curling locks dyed a bright turquoise. She looked very worried, but she also seemed to only have eyes for the younger Kar brother, and they went off out of sight together.

John huffed, scrubbed a hand through his hair, and turned back into the room. He closed and locked the door behind him before looking up at the others.

“‘M sorry.” Faas wouldn’t meet his eye, shuffling a little on one foot.

John came over and continued checking Bluebell. “So that’s your brother, hm? You’re not responsible for him. What do you think he was doing in here?”

“Trying ta shake things up? Find buttons ta push, sait his curiosity… That sorta stuff.” Faas sank into a cross-legged position on the floor and leaned back against Bluebell’s chair. He pulled his legs to his chest and held them there, resting his chin on his knee. “She okay?”

John didn’t answer right away, checking her thoroughly. “Bluebell. Bluebell. Kirstin.” He snapped his fingers to get her attention. “Come on, you’re in there.”

Blinking, Bluebell’s face became weary and sunken as she stirred from whatever dissociation or fever-dream she’d been caught up in on and off. “John.” She rasped.

“There she is.” John said lightly, smiling at her. “You’re nearly through. What do you remember from today?”

She screwed up her face as she tried to hang on to cognizance. “Today… god, how long had today been?”

“Anything’s good. Just what you can remember.”

“I moved around a bit, I think. Plain toast and tea. Talking to… I dunno, Sherlock maybe? Then… some kid, He gave me something else, like a candy or something…”

John narrowed his eyes. “You swallowed it? What did it taste like?”

“Yeah…” it was obvious she was struggling, “I don’t remember. It might have been sweet, but I kept it down.”

“Good, that’s good. Let’s get you back to bed alright?” He helped her up and into bed, covering her and murmuring reassurances. Once she was settled, he knelt in front of Faas. “Your brother gave her something. Do you know what that was? Because we have a very short time to purge it from her system if it was anything bad.”

“I… I dunno.” He admitted. “I dun think he’d poison her ‘er anythin…”

“How sure are you of that?”

“I…” Faas hesitated.

“Right. There really isn’t time and I don’t trust him remotely. Shit.” Standing and going to his case, he got out his med kit. “Go get a bucket, a glass of water, and…” he took out a dressing gown as an afterthought, “throw this at Sherlock while you’re in the bathroom, he’s sitting there in a towel. Unless he buggered off even after I told him not to.”

A bit shaken, Faas stood slowly. Then he grabbed the clothing and dashed out.

John dug carefully into where he knew he kept his charcoal and took it out, as well as a set of medical gloves. _‘That little_ fucker _…’_

 

It only took a few minutes for Faas to return, Sherlock in tow, and John got to work.

“What is this?” Sherlock asked coldly, eyes running over John’s actions. He of course knew what was happening, but the why…

“My brother was in here with her, we don’t know but we think he fed her something.”

“Better safe…” John mumbled, concentrating as he mixed the charcoal into water carefully and sat Bluebell up. He positioned the bucket in her lap as he stirred vigorously. “You have to drink all of this. It’s not a nice taste, but you need to drink all of it. Understand?”

Still somewhat mindful of what was happening, Bluebell nodded. She didn’t ask any questions. Odd.

Leaving John to his professional purview, Sherlock was already pulling out his clothes and getting dressed. “Your brother, hm? And where might he be?”

“I dun think you should talk ta him, Mr Holmes.” Faas replied, eyes fixed on John and Bluebell.

“And why is that?” Sherlock drawled, doing up his cuffs.

“Because he’ll either screw ya around ‘er, if ya show ‘im up, he’ll take it out on someone.”

Sherlock gave Faas a sharp look as he pulled on his socks. “I think I can handle it.”

“Probably.” Faas said, slowly relaxing since his brother had left. “But can everyone else.”

Sherlock frowned, turning towards the retching sounds from the other side of the room. John was rubbing Bluebell’s back as he carefully inspected everything she’d purged.

Pulling on another pair of medical gloves and grabbing John’s forceps, Sherlock came over and pulled a small, blackened cube out of the bucket. “This, I suspect.”

While John stayed beside Bluebell to observe, Sherlock took the cube over to the desk in their room to examine it. “We need access to a lab, John.”

“I’ll get right on that,” came the sarcastic reply. “Why don’t you tell us what you’ve found out about the case, then.”

“I’ve only identified the killer. We still have yet to catch them.”

“You can hardly go out on your own again, or out of the village at all. Just tell me who the suspect is and I’ll go.”

“I don’t have a name, John.”

“You said you knew who did it.”

“I do.”

“But you don’t know their name.”

“I do not.”

“Sherlock…” John began, exasperated, when Bluebell heaved again and he was distracted by tending to her.

In the meantime, Faas approached the desk and watched carefully as Sherlock took apart the cube, setting parts aside as samples. “What d’ya need fer lab stuff?”

“Microscope, at the very least, mass spectrometer, benchtop centrifuge, a computer with more processing power than John’s laptop would be remarkable….”

“You didn’t bring yours.”

“No, you disallowed me from bringing mine because we were supposed to be here to work on my shifting issue and Bluebell’s recovery and not research or cases. As you put it.”

“Look how well that turned out. You can’t bring all that bollocks in here, the less technology the better.”

“If my brother’s flighty assistant can use tech with Neighbors, I certainly can.”

“Get back to me on that once you can do the most basic things associated with the Sight, hm?”

“I feel…” Bluebell interrupted, sounding like death trying to be pleasant, “my current vocalizations are pretty indicative of this scene…” she barely got the sentence out before retching again. Punctuating her point.

John couldn’t help but stifle a giggle. “I guess you’re getting better then, if you can be snarky.”

“I can get a microscope.” Faas jumped on the lull. “Dad has one. Ya can’t go in his study but I can get it out.”

Sherlock looked at him, lowering his brow. “What are you waiting for?”

Smirking, Faas leaned back and tapped his toes on the floor. “‘Please’ might be nice.”

John snickered, allowing what humor he could grab into the situation.

Sherlock shot a glare at him, then back at Faas. “Go.”

The boy stuck his tongue out, but turned around and dashed out of the room.

“You’re surprisingly good with children.” John said, not really thinking about it. Then he frowned, because he felt like he’d said something like that before.

“My mother will be thrilled.” Sherlock replied distractedly, back to work at gathering samples. “I really do need a centrifuge to properly determine if this was toxic.”

Bluebell seemed to be done, so John gave her some water to see if that would stay down. “I don’t think there’s one within a very large area from us. Not even the morgue had much in the way of equipment. It was mostly a giant freezer for storing bodies until they could be picked up by the closest city. I meant it, we’re really not here to work cases. I agreed because I thought it’d be good for you.” John looked up at his detective’s back, a swell of sadness bubbling up in him. “I’m not sure I still think that.”

“It doesn’t matter. I took the case. I’m nearly _done_ with the case. I’m not dropping it now.”

Thinking on it a minute as he took the half drunk glass from Bluebell and helping her rest back down, John clicked his tongue. “Definitely not the son, then.”

Seeing rather than hearing the smirk from Sherlock’s reply reassured John, “I see you’re not entirely a lost cause when it comes to deductions, John.”

 

By the time Faas returned with a large and very expensive-looking microscope, Bluebell was asleep and John was monitoring her vitals. They’d been consistent, at least as far as the last few days.

“Slides.” Sherlock said simply as he set it up and fiddled with dials.

“Ah. Sorry.” Faas ran off again to get the glass slides used with the instrument.

“Do you think Faas’ brother poisoned Bluebell?” John asked, finished taking her pulse.

“I do not. But I cannot back that opinion with fact. I did not interact with him.” Swivelling to look at John with a critical eye, Sherlock wore a stoic face to ask the same thing. “Do you?”

John looked up and to the right, trying to see the experience with Leo Kar from Sherlock’s perspective. What exactly was he doing when John first entered the room… “He was sitting on the arm of the chair, leaned close and in her space. He might’ve been talking to her.”

Leaning back and taking in John’s body language as much as his words, Sherlock walked along the incident with him.

“I didn’t see him give her anything, I don’t think… he flicked his fingers along her chin before he got up, that’s the closest I saw his hands to her face. But she wasn’t really with it at the time, I don’t know if she knows what he said.” Looking Sherlock right in the eye now, John sat up straight and thinned his lips. “He was definitely testing me, goading me. He wanted to see what I’d react to. How hard I’d hold onto him when I escorted him out of the room.” Nodding his head with finality, John gave his answer. “No. I don’t think he poisoned Bluebell. I think the whole point of coming in here was for me, or Faas, or you. It was all some test of our reactions and boundaries.” While Sherlock was studying him, as an afterthought, John added “Oh, and he called me ‘pet’’. Whatever that’s supposed to mean, I don’t want to know.” he huffed.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at that and an odd sensation he hadn’t felt before itched behind his navel and in the back of his esophagus. He tapped his fingers on his leg, thinking on the nickname, and turned back to the desk just before Faas returned with the slides.

\---

Even without any fancy machines, Sherlock had been able to determine with relative certainty that the cube given to Bluebell was in fact a harmless caramel and nothing more. That didn’t bother the detective nearly as much as the familiar, somewhat suggestive nickname the younger Kar had pinned to John.

He could shake the thought, but not the feeling, as he wandered the village in the dark, this time behind homes and in the shadows, as the devilish, stinging breeze pushed through him.

He felt he’d been improving, as he’d remained human all day thus far. Now he’d snuck out to sniff out the murderer, quite literally. The same tickling Shifter scent he’d honed in on at the crime scene was amongst the tumult of smells in the angry mob that morning. There were only a few hundred Shifters in the village, and based on the order in which the rabble had gathered in relation to the first inklings of the familiar scent to Sherlock… well, only a few dozen households could play host to the particular party he sought.

John wouldn’t approve. He was far more on edge after the assault via egg than Sherlock was. If nothing else, it proved he was in far less danger here than in London. For whatever reason, it seemed at least one Neighbor was inclined enough to shield him when Miss Kar could not. Not that he considered himself an easy victim, in any case.

So Sherlock had taken off alone to stroll around out of sight, do his own legwork. John didn’t know which scent to track anyway.

As he rounded the area he’d decided was within reasonable suspicion, Sherlock moved to cross to the other side of the street. A slight breeze tickled his face, bringing with it traces of his quarry on the brisk night air which stopped him in his tracks. He lost it immediately. Set and determined to track the killer tonight, he went over the area again more carefully, mindful to stay behind cover or in shadow, where others were unlikely to wander.

\---

Meanwhile, thinking Sherlock was still playing with the microscope upstairs, John sat and had after-dinner tea with the lady of the house. Both of them were exasperated and weary.

“I can’t blame them for their anger. They’re scared. Our entire history both magical and not is tainted with destruction at the hands of outsiders.”

“Magical and not? I thought yours was a powerful community.”

Humming sadly as she sipped her tea, Kar shook her head. “Not so. In the eyes of other Shifters, perhaps. But most of us here are Metis or Aboriginal. The government of our country doesn’t care about us past keeping us quiet and out of the way until they need to take more from us.”

John considered this carefully. He hadn’t thought about the entangling of Shifters with politics past the inability to properly utilize the police. The race and culture of this place had slipped his notice; only the change in fae had been on his mind. “I… didn’t think about that.”

Smiling sadly, knowingly, Kar nodded. “I expect you didn’t. Why do you think I came after you myself? Because it’s too dangerous to file a police report, in case our hidden nature is revealed?” She laughed humorlessly. “I could file ten, a hundred, one for every person living in this village, yet it would make no difference. First Nations people go missing constantly, mostly women, and nothing is ever done. The people of this country would rather not remember they slaughtered us and took everything from us and shoved us in remote locations without resources.”

“Jesus…” John gripped his cup. His worries about human vs fae seemed goddamn petty now. He had no clue what to say. He’d learned a little about the similar situation in Australia with their indigenous population in school, but only in passing. Without being involved, it left his mind. And he knew his culture was directly responsible.

“I don’t tell you this to recruit you or to entice your pity. I want you to realise your position here and why it’s creating tension. You’re still better off than Mr Holmes. You share a side of our culture, though you do not understand it. The fact he is cursed… we tell our children stories of people nasty enough to be cursed as a Shifter, even if by way of the Unseelie Court.” Looking him over carefully, she gave a genuine smile. “It helps also that to us, you look small and unthreatening. With your knit sweaters and diminutive stature.”

John didn’t know if that made him irritated or amused, and took another drink. “Tall and sharp-”

“And _overtly_ pale…”

“Yes and that… I suppose Sherlock doesn’t have anything going for him. But if he gets the chance to work in your village, I’m certain he would prove he’s helpful. Though I don’t see him worried about the political aspects… he likely noticed immediately, if he didn’t delete it as soon as he learned about the issues here.” Remembering that morning, suddenly, John put down his cup. “What was that, by the way? That flying thing…”

\---

After an hour in the same area with no luck, Sherlock decided to move on and circle back later. He crossed the road with his ears perked to any sound, eyes sharp to make certain he went unseen, and made it across silently. He was fairly sure he’d remained hidden as he began again.

It wasn’t more than ten minutes before he picked it up again. Behind a house… not leading to or from the house, though… but it did seem to lead in one direction out towards the crime scene.

Grinning and elated, Sherlock began to look carefully as he tracked the other direction of the scent… until it cut off abruptly, as if the suspect had circled there several times and doubled back. Curious. Suspicions formed quickly and Sherlock’s awareness pushed itself out around himself, because this-

\---

“Ah. That would be Keya, a spirit of protection in our lands. We often give talismans of the turtle to our children.” Kar answered distractedly.

John hummed, thinking about that. “I suppose Sherlock’s lucky he has a friend here.”

Kar’s laugh made John look at her, surprised. “I think you’re misunderstanding, Doctor Watson. Keya was not there for his benefit. The spirit protected its people. From themselves, perhaps, but it’s arrogant to think our protectors work on your behest.” She looked at John with the weary annoyance of having to explain such things to outsiders many times. “I will admit, where you are concerned, the canotila seem fonder than I’d expect. Though no, your partner does not inspire the same attitude.”

“I am sorry I assumed.” John said, feeling awkward and embarrassed. He took the ‘canotila’ to be some sort of fae. “Do you have any idea why it is they like me? I run into that almost anywhere I go where Neighbors are. They often ask me to leave this world to come to their own.”

At that question, Kar put her cup down and looked carefully at John. Even now, there were several sprites hanging off him that he either didn’t see (at their behest) or chose to ignore. He didn’t look overly special, nor did he give off any odd energy. His Shift was rarer than most, but that’d happened plenty without this result. “Maybe it has to do with your character. Beings of magic have a better sense of these things. Or, do you maybe have an odd birthmark, tattoo… some jewelry you always wear or something else that you always keep on you?”

Scrunching his face in thought, John considered her questions. After a moment, he took a drink, put down his cup, and replied, “I can’t say I have any of those things. Actually, it’s sort of the opposite. Between moving around a bunch as a child and being in the army, I’ve never attached myself to physical possessions. I could leave everything and start over without much trouble. It just seems… practical. And I’ve never noticed or had anything pointed out that was odd about my body, besides you know… when I’m a wolf.” He sighed, crossed his arms, and leaned back. “Don’t suppose asking them would be the obvious answer.”

Chuckling, Kar shook her head. “Yeah. Getting a straight answer without a trade is very unlikely. Even then, they mostly enjoy riddles.”

“Maybe I could get Sherlock to ask… he likes riddles.”

\---

The sudden attack left Sherlock unable to defend, _‘likely detection abating magic, what other explanation…’_ , and the scent he’d been tracking was thick in his face as he doubled over into the arm, pain seeping through his gut… _’thick leather gloves, too warm for this weather, no shoes, rough feet size ten, long jacket made of natural wool from a sheep… no, alpaca… sloppy, Sherlock…_ ’ it always struck him that bleeding felt more like body heat leaving during mass blood loss, rather than loss of liquid.

 _‘See the face-’_ He thought desperately, leaning his weight backwards and reaching up to paw at the _‘man, most certainly, mid thirties from build’_ arms and face above him. But leaning away, the attacker didn’t support him, and the sharpness in him slid out as he fell. _‘Mistake. More damage to abdominal region.’_ And then the figure peering down at him in the dark was just that; a blob roughly in the shape of a person, all in black save a line around the eyes… the face must be exposed between the hairline and just above the cheeks.

Why was his vision already blurring? It wasn’t as if he’d never been stabbed before… but this… was the blade laced with something? Because as his blood continued to take the warmth out of him, a terrible acidic burn spreading from the wound inwards, like a very, very slow burst of lightning as it struck in erratic lines of heightening agony.

God, was he already sweating?

He opened his mouth to yell as the spreading pain became unbearable, but was relatively certain he couldn’t make a noise let alone scream.

He managed to put a shaking hand to the wound, not feeling the site where the knife had gone in any longer, and raised it to his muddied vision. By contrast to his gloves, it was hard to tell, but the feeling was slick. Even a moment’s touch brought a worrying amount of wetness.

It was such a shallow wound, why wasn’t it clotting? Was the blade really poisoned? Is that why it burned? But Sherlock searched his mind in vain as he attempted to attribute the symptoms to any known substance, even as the seeping red bloomed larger and larger, running down, clothing long soaked, into the dirt and grass.

 _‘I won’t survive if I continue to lose this much blood. I have…’_ How long? It should be a simple enough calculation once he retreated from the pain. The acid lightning was at his face, though, and his brain wasn’t communicating as it should. _‘I need John. Someone needs to get John.’_

A whisper returned his thought, on the breeze. _‘John. John.’_

Gritting his teeth and forcing shut his useless eyes, Sherlock worked through to a conclusion that he was not likely hallucinating. _‘Yes. Go fetch John.’_ He thought as loudly as he could.

Giggling. Infuriating giggling. _‘Which John?_ My _John?’_

Past the burning that encompassed every nerve in his body, past the near inability to think at this point, Sherlock mustered the awareness of anger. He had maybe seconds to make a deal before he lost consciousness and went into shock. _‘For a message, relay a message, get John Watson the Heira the location, this… here… I’ll trade a lock of my hair. After. After it’s done.’_ It was potent and dangerous to give up hair to a Neighbor, but he was out of time and couldn’t afford to offer something that could incite haggling.

More giggling, for fucks sake, and then everything faded into the pain that locked him inside his body.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to AliaArik for beta’ing this chapter!


	5. Detective, Twist Your Lip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is Not Okay, semantics are discussed probably more than is entirely necessary, and actually Bluebell is in the same place as she's been this whole time and nobody EVER NOTICES THAT. (She is a quiet bean.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #NotDead
> 
> #ChapterSixIsNowhereNearDone
> 
> #TheAuthorIsBadAtTimeManagement
> 
> #InfinityWarDidSomeShittyThingsAndIAMNOTOK
> 
> #SeriouslyDoNotNormalizeAbuseAs'Love'WTF
> 
> #PlusOtherStuffBut...Spoilers

“Sherlock. Sherlock.”

Someone was calling him, lightly tapping his cheeks. But damn, he felt as if he were on fire, like his flesh was melting inside and out, and part of him fought against waking.

A familiarity clicked in place and pulled him back to reality, and his eyes shot open. It was clouded; either his eyes were watering profusely or his optic nerve was in great distress, or both. Through the haze of his every sense, though, John’s voice came through and he recognized it. That, and his own groaning.

“There you are. Jesus Christ.”

Sherlock’s brain was whirring, slow but still collecting and interpreting information even as he felt it tossed about in his skull. Nausea was no stranger, nor the accompanying vertigo. He was still bleeding. Someone (likely John) was pressing hard on the wound, and it caused the burning feeling to be amplified there. John’s breath was short… panic or exertion? Likely both. Other people were there, at least one wasn’t human. Annoying. John was speaking. What was he saying? Listen.

“Why is he still bleeding?! I’ve never seen an anticoagulant remotely like this, and the flesh is all black, Jesus what weapon did they use. Sherlock, look at me. Do not close your eyes, pay attention.”

A hand came up to tap his cheek again. Oh. It had blood on it, fresh blood. Back it went to meet the other one and push. It didn’t stop the gushing wound. 

_ ‘I’m probably going to die.’ _

And for reasons he wouldn’t understand until his mind cleared again, Sherlock heard a distinct voice in his memories; 

 

_ ‘Please god, let me live?’  _

_ ‘Use your imagination!’  _

_ ‘I don’t have to.’ _

 

And the feelings of that moment, which he barely made sense of later, flooded him with the will to live.

“Sherlock. Sherlock, why in god’s name are you smiling… fuck I think he’s going into shock…”

_ ‘He’s probably right…’  _ Sherlock thought dully as an overwhelming nausea swept through him and he blacked out again.

 

-

 

_ ‘Shit shit shit-’ _ John’s reaction at seeing Sherlock lying in the grass in the light of predawn, much paler than he should be, changed quickly from panic to intense concentration. He analysed the area quickly but saw no one and no obvious weapon as he dropped down beside Sherlock and the growing dark puddle around and beneath him. He quickly donned the med gloves he kept on his person and scanned the body.  _ ‘This should not be bleeding like this.’ _ He barked a command for a med kit and an ambulance. 

Leaning in with his ear close to Sherlock’s mouth, he listened and watched. Hitched, somewhat shallow, but steady breathing. Pulse: weak, thready.

He pinched open one eye and took out his pocket torch. Pupils responsive.

“Sherlock.” He started calling, watching his face as he inspected the site of the wound.

In lieu of scissors, he carefully opened Sherlock’s shirt and found the injury. Stab wound, by a sharp flat blade, only a few inches deep by the look of it… but it was blackened and a steady stream of blood was running out as if he’d just now been stabbed. He pulled off Sherlock’s scarf and folded it quickly, then pushed it onto the cut with steady pressure. He was going to crash soon if he didn’t wake up.

“Sherlock.” He kept calling, voice strict and clear. “Sherlock.” He risked taking a hand off and slightly slapping Sherlock about the cheek. Faas and his mother returned, and the med kit was put beside him. He ignored them otherwise. 

With a gasp of air, Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open and searched as he let out a weak but terrible groan. “There you are.”

Flicking open the med kit one handed, John indicated someone to come around the other side of him. “Why is he still bleeding?!” He asked sternly, looking at Miss Kar. “I’ve never seen an anticoagulant remotely like this, and the flesh is all black, Jesus what weapon did they use?!” Seeing the woman look as lost as he was, likely in shock, he turned back to the victim. “Sherlock, look at me. Do not close your eyes, pay attention.” As Faas knelt opposite him, John thrust gloves at him and took his hands as soon as they were on, pushing them down hard on the scarf. He tapped Sherlock’s face again as he closed his eyes too long. “Sherlock.” He quickly took out a bottle of saline, and when he looked back, there was a warm smile on his detective’s face. “Jesus…” John controlled his breathing. “Sherlock, why in god’s name are you smiling… fuck I think he’s going into shock…”

He pulled Faas off, making sure he still had the scarf, and doused the open wound with saline. Taking a good look as the transparent liquid washed over it and pushed the blood out of the way gave no clues as to why Sherlock would not stop bleeding. There was a giggling behind his ear, which he ignored a moment as he applied a proper bandage and put Faas’ hands back for pressure. Then he looked behind him quickly to see the little Ariel for the first time since she’d saved his life in Ontario. He ignored her for the time being, turning to Kar.

“Can I cauterize this?” He asked quickly but calmly.

She looked carefully, shaking her head. “I’m sorry… they must’ve used something like wolfsbane or silver or cold iron… this sort of injury can’t be treated conventionally until that’s neutralized…”

“How do I do that?”

She looked lost for the first time since John had met her. That was enough of an answer. He turned to the Neighbor who was now seated upon his shoulder. She giggled again and this time, it struck a chord. He should probably be grateful, or ask what it really meant that he’d traded his name. But somehow she made him furious. “What. is.  _ Funny _ .” He asked, voice carefully measured and deeply seated in the air between them.

_ “I know what  _ exactly _ does that.”  _ She said, putting a finger to her tiny lips and winking.

“Do you know how to treat it? Because otherwise that information is useless.”

_ “So testy, My Heira.” _ She giggled, doing a loop in the air.

“Tell me.”

_ “Hm. Why should I? I own everything you have to give.” _

“Because he is part of me, so if you own my name, he’s part of that.” John breathed with intention, on edge and completely aware that beside him, Sherlock was moving quickly to a point he could not come back from. Even if they got him to a surgery somehow, they could never operate uncertain whether he’d shift midway.

After a second that felt much longer than that, she nodded.  _ “You are quite clever sometimes.”  _ She said, mischievous and proud.  _ “A blade of silver pure was used, to destroy those who are neither human nor faerie.”  _ She announced in a poetic trill as she danced.  _ “The only remedy, when used as a matter of course,”  _ She spun around and around, then stopped and looked at John with a wily and somewhat fearsome smile,  _ ‘is blood moss.’ _

“Okay, then. What is that and where do I get it?”

Behind him, Faas let out one sharp whistle. “Blood moss. We’ve got that.” He jumped up and took off before John could open his mouth to send him. John leaned forward to take over giving pressure. He didn’t know if it was helping at all, but he had to try.

Faas would bring the medicine they needed. In the meantime, he needed to keep Sherlock alive. “You need to go to a med center or donor clinic and get me blood platelets. He’s AB negative. Get at least three bags.” He took over keeping pressure on from Faas as he gave instructions to his mother. “An IV pole, needle kits, and tubing wouldn’t hurt, but aren’t as urgent. If you can get them easily, do. Otherwise go and come back as quickly as you can.”

John was surprised when she went the opposite direction of her house, where the SUV was parked. But he didn’t have time to worry about how she did what he asked, so long as she did it.

As he waited, putting his weight somewhat into the scarf (though the steady flow kept on once it was soaked regardless), he looked around. Trying to bring to mind any of the techniques Sherlock employed; there must be clues around, something that could inspire some way to stabilize his dying detective… they’d all stomped around, so it wasn’t easy to find traces of much.

“Why…” John muttered, “why did you go off alone?”

\---

“There you are…” John sat up, noticing his detective’s chest quickening it’s rise and fall, and abandoned his magazine atop the patient’s legs. “Sherlock…” He sighed, equal parts fond and furious. “You daft wanker.”

“Cold…” His detective mumbled, not bothering to try opening his eyes just now.

“Pull the other one.” Eye roll obvious as it dripped from his words, John nonetheless tugged the blanket up on Sherlock’s chest. “We can’t put you in anything, you shift and shed randomly even now. It’s making treatment a bloody nightmare.”

Managing to crack one eye despite his better judgement against it, Sherlock looked at John and frowned. “Well?”

John’s whole face seemed to settle further downwards as he slumped back down in his seat beside the bed. “Well  _ what _ .”

“You have something to share.” Sherlock spoke quietly to keep his throat hurting more than it already did. Everything did.

Turning away to retrieve a glass of water and a straw, John’s voice lowered as it hung over the precipice by his last nerve, “ _ No shit  _ I do,” keeping a stoic control, he offered Sherlock a drink, “but you’re in no state for that yet. Believe me… I’ll share my feelings as soon as you are.” After he was satisfied his irritating charge had finished, John lowered the glass back to the bedside table and pinched the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t look his partner directly since he’d woken. He couldn’t bring himself…

“I’m mentally healthy. There is nothing keeping you from speaking to me now.”

“Actually,” John stood, his chair screeching on the hardwood as it slid backwards too quickly, and paced away from the bed a few steps to get his breath under control, “there is. You need to rest in order to recover, extra stress is not helpful. This is not the time.”

Agitated himself because John had information which would provide an excellent distraction from his densely exhausted body, Sherlock pressed calmly and quietly. “John…”

John tensed and flexed his left hand, keeping his composure due only due to strict self-discipline. “How could you…” He hissed, not caring if Sherlock could hear him or not. He raised his voice as he turned, the emotion now purely subtextual in his body. “You went off on your own, you didn’t tell me what you were doing, and that’s bad enough under ‘normal’ circumstances. But your body is erratic and unreliable. It was reckless, even for you, and  _ brainless _ quite honestly. Your constant disregard for your own health has come to a head.” John watched Sherlock’s lack of a reaction and felt like he could cry, he was so frustrated and scared and worried. Instead, he flexed his left hand though he knew it was an obvious tell. Then he let his chin fall with a humorless chuckle, pushing his palm into his face and shaking his head. “You don’t often overestimate yourself, but when you do…”

Forcing his body to move in an attempt to sit up proving fruitless, Sherlock became aware of the IV in the back of his hand. It was the only hospital thing in their room, for which he was grateful. He settled into bed and the idea he’d be immobile for some time yet. “I didn’t think I would need you.”

“Don’t. Don’t pull that bullshit, you know better. God, Sherlock…” John approached the bed, hand slipping down over his mouth instead of his eyes as he gazed at the entirety of the man in the bed, constantly and inescapably aware that had one tiny aspect of last night happened differently, Sherlock would certainly be dead. “I know I’m not your boyfriend, but this partnership still lends me some responsibility for you. You need to make sure I’m there if you need me, whether you think you will or not.”

Several corrections passed over Sherlock’s tongue without leaving his mouth. He thinned his lips and cleared his throat so he could speak clearly a little louder. At this distance, John would hear him regardless, but he was going to be certain. He considered what tack to follow carefully. It made his head throb.  _ Sentiment _ . “You are not my boyfriend.” He said, careful to lace his tone with questioning derision. “Sit me up.” He stared, annoyed, at the ceiling.

John looked at him a moment before moving to comply. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he spoke quietly as he carefully supported Sherlock’s back and piled pillows there, “No, I’m not.” Reading the utter confusion on his detective’s face once he leaned back out of personal space, John’s irritation smoothly changed tracks in order to continue the conversation. “We snogged once. That doesn’t make us a couple, people need to discuss that part. We never have.” His voice was a barely controlled viper of hurt and spite. “I’m absolutely going to refuse you if you ask me about it  _ now _ , after conveniently being  _ stabbed. _ ” He added a flair of sarcasm, because he didn’t remotely expect Sherlock to actually want to date anyone.

“I didn’t get myself stabbed on purpose.” Sherlock shot back best he could through the haze of dizziness and fatigue, recalculating a lot of things from the past few weeks. “What the hell have we been doing if not dating?”

John gave him an incredulous look because honestly, how could someone so brilliant be  _ so. goddamn. thick. _ “Do you  _ want  _ to be dating?” John threw up his hands, then tucked them in crossed at his sides. “I thought…” he looked carefully at Sherlock, anxious now for an entirely separate reason, “you didn’t go in for that sort of thing.” He cut Sherlock off before he could speak, hastily adding, “Being… whatever we are… it’s always worked once I understood where I stood. I’m not going to ask you for something you don’t want to give.” He spoke sternly, feeling awkward now as his emotions were pulled hard in several directions. He was used to defensive anger dictating these moments…

Lowering his brow gave a stark look, which wasn’t really what Sherlock was going for, but with his skin so pallid and eyes so dark it wasn’t exactly optional. “Making assumptions is dangerous, John, and now you’re making the same mistake you’ve just accused me of. I haven’t done this before, not like this. And you should know, I am not in the habit of giving things if I don’t want to.”

John had trouble processing what exactly was happening. This wasn’t the way he’d seen this going, either in the context of this conversation or the setting it was in. He was completely distracted from confronting Sherlock about his errant, dangerous behaviour, and he knew it. “What… are you saying?” A great beast inside him fought angrily against this development, the same defensive part that vehemently insisted he wasn’t interested in Sherlock, or men altogether, any time it was implied. It wasn’t this vocal even when they’d kissed, but then that seemed somehow less definitive. This… this could end in concrete titles.

John’s range of facial expression was impressive. Watching it was refreshingly different than the communications through expression he had with Mycroft (the closest point of comparative observation). It was among the things which most endeared John to him, especially since it made for an excellent barometer with which to judge the intelligence of others. Anyone who ignored the implications of John’s dangerous livid smile was either an ignoramus or extremely confident they could handle the army doctor (they rarely could).

Once John seemed to have settled on one emotion (confused fearful anticipation), Sherlock noted not many others would have read that in how the lines of his face pulled just so, and spoke. “Don’t be obtuse, John. It’s hardly becoming.”

Eyes narrowing, as if expecting something and not getting it had disappointed him, and that disappointment had scared him, John gave a lingering look of derision. Then he turned and checked the blood bag. It was half emptied. “Think about it and talk to me again when you’re not half delirious from blood loss.” He tossed the sentiment halfheartedly over his shoulder. 

\---

The next time Sherlock woke, nearly a full day later, John faced him with anxiety churning in his gut. But the conversation drifted into comfortable, neutral territory, and he relaxed. If he hadn’t been actively ignoring the unfinished business before them, if he’d paid any mind at all, he’d have realized Sherlock was purposefully ignoring it too. What he likely would not have guessed, however, is that he did it not to be obtuse, but for John’s sake.

“If you’d figured out the sort of Shifter you were looking for, why not ask Miss Kar to identify them for you… instead of tracking them alone, in the dark, in a village that had mobbed you that same morning?” John asked, now with a bit of humor behind his judgemental tone. He sipped his coffee as he kept an eye on the medical needs in the room (which were many, yet easily a cakewalk in comparison to his school days).

“I don’t move onto that sort of confrontation until I have all the facts. You know that. It’s the equivalent of getting the Yard involved. Unless it’s the very last step, that sort of oversight pulls the entire case to a screeching halt.” John had to smack his hand as Sherlock reached down, for the third time in ten minutes, to try and look under his gauze. “I won’t mess around with it. I simply want to examine it.”

“No.” John reiterated rather patiently. “It was hard enough to find tegaderm out here, I don’t have an endless supply.”

“Then explain it.” Sherlock leaned back, crossing his arms (a feat he could manage only about once daily), and looked pointedly at John.

“I don’t understand everything myself yet.” John sighed but continued regardless. “What do you remember?” Their fight had distracted him from the fact there was a murderer nearby who wanted Sherlock dead, but now he hesitated to bring it up in case it inspired further reckless abandon.

“Obvious double back. My investigation wasn’t enough to spur this sort of assault though, not in the stage it was in.”

“That’s not… what, you figure it’s unrelated?”

“I didn’t say that.” Sherlock huffed, disappointed. “Keep up. No, it was contributing though. I didn’t see much in the dark, and what I did is marred by pain and adrenaline. Not reliable.”

“Someone stabbed you.”

“So I’ve gathered.”

“You were able to make a deal for a Neighbor’s aid. They came and got me.”

“I do recall that.”

“What did you trade?”

“Hair. What caused the extreme reaction. The blade was treated with something?”

“Hair, Sherlock…” John rubbed his temples but pressed on. “No, it was silver. Had to be pure silver to do that sort of damage, and usually it’s fatal to a Shifter. You’re goddamn lucky.”

“Silver. You’ve had to have worked with silver during your medical training at some point.”

“Hm. Feigned allergy. Not difficult. I’ve never been able to handle it, so that made it easier.”

“Deliberate. The attacker was our murderer, and they were also in the mob in the square.” Sherlock tapped his nose. “Getting a handle on it.”

“Scent? I don’t know, Sherlock, that’s not definitive. Andrea could hide her Shifter scent, what’re the odds someone can plant some?”

“That’s high level magic and requires a familiar, preparation, skill. No, this is someone who knows and understands just enough to think themselves clever.”

John snorted a bit but didn’t comment. “I had to treat the silver’s toxic effect before the wound itself. There’s a very adaptable plant they grow in the greenhouse here, for that reason. It’s been applied directly. The knife itself did little real damage.” Sherlock raised a brow as a question. “It’s called blood moss. Potent in it’s raw form, enough to save the time of needing to prepare it.”

Narrowing his eyes now, Sherlock forwent pulling the medical tape and poked himself instead. As he’d thought, the mass moved a bit independently of him. It was an intrusive, spine-tingly feeling. “You put a scrap of moss  _ inside _ my skin.”

John held back a grin, hiding it behind his fist with a cough and emerging with a professional medical demeanor. “Direct, prolonged contact to the site of the toxin, the  _ entirety _ of the site, was necessary to reverse the effects before they killed you. So yes. You have a thin shaving of a clump of moss from the greenhouse pushed into your gut.”

Rather than looking horrified or disgusted, like any reasonable adult, Sherlock lit up with fascination. It earned it another smack. “This is  _ my _ purview. It’s not an experiment for you to observe. Leave it be for now and study the plant itself on your own time.”

“John, that’s ridiculous. Only seeing it in a natural organic environment is not remotely sufficient. Watching and tracking its interaction with my body, my immune system, is critical data that I am uniquely qualified to render as it’s source.”

“No.”

Boring into John’s eyes, though it wasn’t remotely shaking him, Sherlock tilted his head down. “John.”

Enunciating exaggeratedly, John repeated, this time adding a prodding finger in the air. “No.”

Jutting his lips a bit in annoyance, Sherlock leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “I have better control over my sleep needs than you by scores. I’m just going to do it anyway.”

“Pfft,” John smirked, “Not when I have prolonged control over a direct line to your veins. I knew I’d need to knock you out, you just can’t sit still.”

Souring a tad more, Sherlock dropped the conversation. “We shall see.”

\---

True to his word, Sherlock was an uncooperative patient at best (though not the worst John ever had… not that he told his detective that). Eventually, John’s willingness to put up with it wavered, and it was at this time Sherlock unburied their unresolved issue.

“You’d recover more quickly if you listened to me.” John insisted dully, rechecking everything. It had become a necessary procedure every time his back had been turned or he’d been out of the room, or asleep in the next bed.

“So we have it officially on record, ‘will you be my boyfriend’.” Sherlock was nearly certain of the answer, so it wasn’t really a question. He wasn’t even looking directly at John, who stood up straight and stared. Sherlock, on the other hand, licked a finger to flip the page in the book he was reading. (One of Bluebell’s,  _ much _ easier to decipher now he could see what was on every page. In contrast to Sherlock, she was recovering quite nicely now she was over the worst of it. She was herself again, when conscious… she did sleep about 18 hours a day still and usually stayed shifted.)

After a great pause in which John scrutinized Sherlock’s every motion, and Sherlock finished his page, the doctor eased himself down on a chair. He looked weary. That was somewhat unexpected.

“Sherlock…” He started. Half an octave down, softly spoken, intonation down on the last syllable. Consolation? Over what… “You said you’ve not done this before, do you actually know what you’re asking?”

“Honestly,” he didn’t stop looking over the yellowed volume, easily giving enough attention to both, “it hardly makes any difference to our lives if we’re together romantically. What does it change? You already share my bed, we keep the same space, we spend the more significant amount of time in one another’s company. The notable difference would be physical intimacy.” He turned another page, quickly discerning he could skip this and the next one. “Which led to my earlier confusion. I do touch you more intimately than you’d have allowed if not for romantic feelings towards me and some sort of acceptance therein. We have kissed, which I can reliably attest we both enjoyed, and therefore are likely to partake of again.” He lent a glance without moving his head. “I’m not wrong. So what do you assume I’m lacking.”

“You’ve left out a rather large, untested portion of most romantic relationships, and that’s really what, at this point, I’m not sure we can handle…. Individually or together.”

“Sex.” Sherlock finished for him, returning to his reading. “I have mentioned, if you don’t recall, that sex fails to alarm me.”

Leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and thread his fingers, John spoke seriously but gently. “Have you had sex, Sherlock? Even by yourself?”

Blinking, though he’d expected this line of questioning eventually, Sherlock put down his book finally and faced John properly. “That’s really not necessary, John, I am an adult regardless of what others might think of me. You’re behaving like a guidance counsellor, not the person about whom this discussion involves.”

John’s lips thinned, his gut flopping over once and landing at the bottom of his throat. “... I have trouble with this.”

“I know.”

“I’d like if you answered the question anyway.”

“That’s annoying.” Sherlock huffed. “Talk to  _ me _ , not a faceless patient.”

“It’s…” John sat back up and ran his fingers backwards through his scalp. “I don’t want to push you, not about this.  _ Never _ about this.”

“How did you talk to your girlfriends about sex?”

Pushing himself up in one fluid motion, John turned away with his hand on his face. “God, Sherlock, you’re not them! You’re not… remotely… That won’t work, it’s never been close to this. Fuck! Why was it so easy to snog, why is this so much harder?”

“I have masturbated. I found it a waste of time.”

John turned again and looked at the calm, neutral face. “Why is this easy for you?”

“You’re assuming it is.”

“Isn’t it?”

“It is now.”

“Why?! What’s the difference?!”

“We’ve already done the hard bit, John. It’s not so important you need to get upset. What do you want to do about it?”

“... I don’t know. But, I need to understand what you think about it.”

Blinking (this gave the impression of proper consideration, where in reality Sherlock had already thought carefully over this subject), Sherlock’s sharp light eyes developed a serious intensity that made John shiver a bit, and not in an unpleasant way. “I am currently uninterested.” Now the part he didn’t have complete confidence in, as far as hypothesis goes. “Does that change things for you?”

Honestly, John thinking carefully, especially with the intention of sharing, was a refreshing occurrence to observe.

“No.” He met Sherlock’s eye. “No, I want to be with you.” The amalgamation of emotions John experienced saying that was too overwhelming to interpret just now, but the cliffnotes version was ‘press on strongly’. “If that means not having sex, I’m alright with that. If that means having sex with a man… I’m alright with that, too. If it’s you.”

Letting the anticipation stew a few moments, Sherlock finally cracked a superior grin that made John want equal parts to snog and slug him. “Then I think we have our answer, however belatedly.”

“You’re honestly an insufferable wanker.” John sighed, the underlying fondness not lost in it.

“Indeed I am.”

Then, in the moment of open invitation and permission, John put his knee on the mattress and sank in to lean over Sherlock, hands on either side of his head. “Yes.” He said, both understanding it as the answer to Sherlock’s initial not-question.

Then he pressed his lips down on Sherlock’s with euphoric butterflies flitting in his torso, hand tracing around the curve of his stubbled jawline.

“What is it like, kissing someone with whiskers?”

“You’re never allowed to grow a beard.”

\---

“Someone is trying to kill you, not me, and I have a lot more pull in this community,  _ and _ I have a better in and understanding with the fae… do I need to go on? Or are you finished arguing this futile point. If you haven’t convinced me you’re right by now, you’re not going to.”

John was fixing tea as he discussed their next plan of action. Sherlock was bedridden until the moss could finish soaking up the toxins from Sherlock’s blood and, from his understanding of things, spirit. If he moved around with it in his flesh, it could displace it and it could miss something fatal, he could even start the bleeding again... it was bad enough he still couldn’t control when his body changed. Though that had its advantages. For example, at the moment Sherlock was the kinkajou and therefore could not interrupt nor argue.

Putting Sherlock’s cup on the bedside table for when he was ready, likely also human, John pulled back the sheets carefully to properly examine things while he was still shifted. “Yeah, I’m not a vet by any means, but I doubt very much you’ll get the hair back there. It’ll scar and you’ll have a little slit in your thick poof.”

Sherlock hissed irritatedly in reply.

“Well? It’ll make it harder for you to blend in with other kinkajous if you need to.” John said off hand, effectively masking his worry. He knew for fact that scars in one form transferred to the other. That made it much more difficult to keep his secret from humans. Carefully pulling back the gauze, which he needed to change every time Sherlock’s body changed, he mused that inconvenience was easily dealt with; Sherlock’s form-imposed muteness made things more fun for John than he’d likely admit. He would take to the  _ grave _ how deeply he actually missed the unexpected or genuinely brilliant comment that often struck back during this sort of banter between them.

Changing the bandage also let him know, for the most part, whether Sherlock had been messing with it. He’d been disappointed about half the time, and he honestly didn’t know why his detective kept doing it. John made certain he never had the privacy to fiddle with it for more than a minute or two at a time. “At some point, you’ll need to admit you’re doing this just to be contrary.”

A huff through the nose was the reply to that one.

“So. Other than the numerous great reasons I’ve already given, your absolute disrespect for my medical orders is keeping you down much longer than you need to be. You’re too itchy with this case right under your nose and, in your opinion, basically solved. I’ve spoken to Kar and… some contacts… and there’s a consensus, and a quiet place out in the country you’ll absolutely loathe, and you’re going there.” He put his hand over the stout nose and maw before Sherlock could react, even if only in barks and squeaks. “I’m going to finish the case here. If you actually  _ listen _ to my orders so you can recover properly, and take care of yourself better so this doesn’t repeat (god willing), I will send you detailed updates to work on. This isn’t really up for debate, but I’d feel a lot better about it if you agreed.”

Then the little kinkajou did something unexpected (and likely at least partially calculated); it latched onto John’s hand with it’s little black fingers and firmly squeezed. John turned, forgetting the sterile packaged tegaderm he hadn’t opened yet, and looked down at the huge, forlorn eyes. Then he put the bandage down and removed his gloves to sit on the bed. “Sherlock, I…” He huffed sadly, “I know you’re going to be in danger, probably your entire life. As long as you’re somewhat concerned with your safety, that’s usually something I can handle, even participate in. It’s…” he looked away a moment before continuing, “it’s a large part of why I stayed, at the start.” Another pause, this time with full eye contact. Sherlock was unsure if he was trying to communicate non-verbally (not successful) or, based on how his eyes flicked over the furry face in front of him, memorize and/or appreciate him. “Look at yourself, you can barely move. You’re too enamored with your work with it in your face like this, and you won’t survive even a little more violence.”

Though his black lips thinned, Sherlock seemed to settle slightly into the idea of leaving. John smiled a little as the claw released him, and as he returned to changing the tegaderm, he added, “I’m sending someone else to keep you on track with your recovery and to keep you company.” He ignored the answering scoff. “You like them.”

That made the fuzz on Sherlock’s head furrow. Who the hell did he ‘like’, instead of perhaps ‘tolerate’?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AliaArik beta'd again or this wouldn't be here, so go thank them and send them nice things.


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